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"Your resume looks pretty good," I said to the Greek God, "Says here you sling lightening bolts at non believers?" "Used to," his voice thundered, pointing to a spot on the paper, "I stopped that a while ago, set the weather on autopilot centuries ago." "That's good, we really don't have a lot of use for that here anyway," I admitted. Looking down at his paper again, "I'll be honest, Zeus, I don't really see how your qualified for this job." I hit the paper, "I mean, I see your really qualified to keep Gods in order, but how does that relate to farm work?" His voice bellowed and shook the house with his laughter. "My my, mortal, you have quite the expectations." He smiled with pearly and perfect white teeth, "I'm very experienced with the wooing of animals." Confused I cocked my head, "Wooing?" He shifted a glance to the side and said, "erhm, err-- I mean *cooping.* Like, ya know taking care of chicken coops." "I see, I've never heard that word, *cooping.*" He slighted another glance to the side, "yes, the --uhhh-- words are slightly different up in Paradise, ya know." "Of course." He shifted, "As I was saying, I'm really good with animals. I've never had a bad relationship with one." "Well, Zeus, we try not to get too attached to the animals here," I scolded, "none of them are long for this world." "Precisely why they're such good dating material!" He bellowed, "no commitment!" The house shook again with this laughter, only to be cut suddenly, realizing I wasn't laughing "I don't get it." He cleared his throat, "oh it's nothing, what's the next question?" I eyed him suspiciously, "How many hours a week can you commit?" "Well," he thundered, "I don't really need to eat or sleep. I'm kind of like a god, ya know? So I can do whatever." "That's good," I admitted, "and are you ok with the official uniform?" "Sheeps wool? That's fine, I don't really need it for the warmth, but hey, more cushion for the pushin' if ya know what I mean, eh?" He laughed, nudging me with his elbow. "I actually have no idea what you mean. What pushin'?" "ehhhh, umm.... Ox carts and such. And goat sex." With that final comment he clasped his hands around his mouth, eyes wide with the naked truth. "Gods damnit, Zeus!" I cried, throwing his resume to the ground, "I thought you said that shit was behind you! It says right here on your Godly Resume that you attended Bestiality Anonymous for fifteen centuries!" He let out an apologetic smile, and shrugged his shoulders, "guilty pleasure I guess." I said nothing. "So, do I get the job?" He asked "Get out!" This time taking my turn to shake the house. He scowled and followed my pointing finger to the door and left. Leaving me to my pile of resumes. *Gods Damned Goat fucker...*

You are interviewing Zeus for a job on your farm and slowly realizing that he's going to seduce all your animals.

“Do we have any more orange juice?” Keith asked. He yanked open the refrigerator door and peered inside, letting out a quiet sigh as he saw the empty carton on the bottom shelf, “You didn’t go to the grocery store today?” “Oh, did I *forget* to pick up your precious orange juice?” Shelby hissed from the sink. She stopped in her merciless scrubbing of a pan and turned on Keith, her swollen, pregnant frame wavering slightly as she grasped the counter for support, “You do realize I’m 8 months pregnant, right? The world doesn’t revolve around *you*, Keith. You’ll have to pick up some slack sometime! I mean, you’re going to be a father for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t *you* pick up any juice?” Keith looked up at his wife with a look of bewilderment and nervously cleared his throat, “I...I was at *work*...for twelve hours! It’s not a big deal, baby, I mean...I was just curious, I didn’t mean to-” “*Oh don’t give me that fucking ‘work’ excuse!*” she sneered, crossing her arms across her chest, “You could have stopped at the store on your way home! Or, let me guess, you forgot your wallet again, didn’t you?!” Shelby’s eyes welled with tears and as opened his mouth to respond, she thrust a finger towards the fridge, “I mean, you can’t even close the fridge door, can you!? You’re just standing there, gaping at me like an idiot!” “But...I-” Keith stammered, quickly shutting the fridge door to stand and try to reason with his wife, “Listen, babe, I’m sorry! I...I mean, it’s just orange juice, it’s not important!” “It’s the *concept* of the thing, Keith!” Shelby wailed suddenly. Hot tears began gushing from her eyes and her cheeks turned a bright red while she choked back sobs, “If you can’t even pick up the juice how are we going to raise our children!?” “What!?” Keith cried. Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the idea, but the other part was too terrified to make a move. “I MEAN IT!” she roared. Shelby dropped her head and cradled her face in her hands. She stood motionless, shaking and sobbing in the middle of the kitchen. Keith reached out to his wife, unsure of what to say or do to console her, but she jerked away at his touch with a spiteful glare, “*I just can’t do this right now!* I’m going to take a bath. Leave me alone for an hour.” Without another word, she marched out of the kitchen and upstairs, leaving her poor husband alone and wondering what had just happened, exactly. Keith scratched his head and frowned, “All I wanted was some orange juice…”

"All I wanted was some orange juice"

*It says here you did your doctoral studies at MSU?* *Yes.* *Got a good basketball team there. That Izzo sure can coach.* *Izzo?* *Guess you weren't the going out type.* *No, I did plenty of field work.* *Where exactly did you do your field work?* *I lived with a family of Dragons on the plains of Irrith for half a year, during which I discovered a way to transfer their fire-breathing capabilities into gnomes.* *What?* *Yes, it was quite the accomplishment. Usually such high-quality work is only seen at facilities like Hogwarts, Tar Valon, and the Arcane University. But it turns out that fire-breathing gnomes tend to cause quite a bit of property damage. So I was exiled, and magical essence is now lost to me.* *You too?* *Excuse me?* *I accidentally turned an Arch-Mage's daughter into a tree. Which normally wouldn't be a problem, seeing as how the spell is easily reversed. But that tree happened to mate with a river nymph, so I was found guilty of complicity to commit a rape.* *Why, that's terrible! You can't be held accountable for the actions of a nymph!* *Apparently you can. But that bit about the fire-breathing gnomes, it really is quite impressive. I've never heard of such a thing. That would certainly be the equivalent of say, a PHD from an Ivy League school or Oxbridge in this world.* *I have no idea what you're talking about.* *It doesn't matter. Here at Harvard we rarely do any teaching. It's more about superstar professors doing research and looking like experts. I'd say you'll fit right in.* *Do you have access to an endless supply of newts?* *It can be arranged.* *Excellent. I think I shall like it here.* *Hmmm, lets see. I think I'll put you in the history department. Most of the ex-wizards go there. I started there myself, before I became Dean. It was really quite easy. Our beards are unheard of in this world.* *Really? That seems unbelievable.* *It's true. Only wizards can grow these kinds of beards. You'll find they lend a certain amount of professionalism. People will assume you know things, and take your answers for absolute truth regardless of how much sense they make. They will look up to you, open doors for you, give things to you for no good reason.* *Fascinating.* *Truly. There's also something called a Guinness Book of World Records. We take turns growing the longest beard for this book, and then they give us free beverages for life.* *What kind of beverage?* *It's a bit like Juminth.* *Absolutely astounding.* *Honestly, things are better here. You can't just magic your breakfast into existence or give the order to a subservient creature. Instead there are these people called chefs. They do absolutely wonderful things with the simplest ingredients. It's quite impressive.* *You shall have to show me these chefs.* *Well then, how about we go get some dinner. You're hired, by the way.*

A wizard, good or evil, is exiled to non-magical Earth. Even though a lot of his knowledge is now useless, once-secondary skills offer him the chance to thrive.

"Hey, kid. *Kid!*" The brown haired boy in school uniform whips his head round. "I'm right here." He can't see me, for the simple reason I've planted myself in the middle of a massive rhododendron bush. This park is too often patrolled by the authorities, and what I'm selling hasn't been legal for the last fifteen years. But a man's gotta eat and apparently a boy's gotta dream, so I agreed to meet this school kid in-between his fourth and fifth period. He's a lot younger than I thought he'd be. They look younger every year. "In here." I whisper, and finally he spots me. "Why are you hiding?" He asks. Fuck me sideways, he's innocent. What I'm selling is highly addictive. God knows what'll happen if I sell it to someone as young as this. "It's fucking illegal, you dolt. What did you want, a week's worth?" "Yeah," He says earnestly. "Can I ask for specific things?" "Depends on what I have." Prying open my coat pocket with dirty fingernails, I pull out a handful of small vials. Each contain a mouthful of different coloured liquid which doesn't really act like liquid - more like a kind of oozing gel. Tastes like strawberries if it's a good dream, and earwax if it ain't. "What's the provence?" "Eh?" "Where did they come from?" "Ah fuck knows. Me mate cooks them in his flat." "Are they safe?" The kid asks, worry all over his face. "They're dreams aren't they? When are dreams ever safe?" "Huh.." "So," I turn the vials over in my hands. "We got a bright future, two perfect girls, three happy home lives, coupla holidays in the sun and one in the snow...." "Have you got a just and liberal system?" The kid asks "What's that supposed to mean?" "You know... A dream where dreams are legal. Where we can do what we want." "Bit meta, isn't it? Nah, just the usuals." "Ah well, I'll just get a perfect girl and a bright future please." "Sure," I hand over the two vials, one pink and one gold and he passes me a crumpled tenner. "Careful with them, okay?" I dunno why I said that. Usually I don't care too much about my customers, but he seems so young. Getting hooked on dreams is no way to grow old. A line from an old classic comes to mind as he's leaving. "Hey - kid!" He turns round. "Remember, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live." He laughs and turns away. "Thanks for the dreams man!" He says, and like that, he's gone.

Write about someone who sells dreams in a world where dreams are forbidden or extinct

A pleasant young lady arrived at my door with a pleasant little box--brown, lidded, and wrapped with a thin, white ribbon. She gave not a glance to me and nudged her way inside, padding gently on her little feet across the floor. She drifted into the living room and placed the box by my poinsettias, then adjusted the cloth underneath them, as though she were the owner of the place and she knew exactly where each thing belonged. There was something in her manner that I didn't much like. She was in my house uninvited, for one thing, and she had not said so much as a hello to me, for another. But it was something beyond that. The way she moved was...disjointed, as if a million pictures had been spliced together. There were no seams, no gaps, but something did not quite line up. It was as though she were walking behind a translucent sheet where parts of her would fade in and out of focus in no logical succession. She turned to face me, and I noticed that the poinsettia's leaned away from her, as though knowing there was no sunlight, no life to be gained from turning her way. But it was not me that had caught her attention. She took my couch pillow in her hand and fluffed it before sliding it delicately into her jacket. "What do you think you're doing?" I protested. "Who are you?" She continued to softly pilfer the whole of my belongings. I was too shocked to move from my place at the door, feet still planted in awe at this curious intruder. But my questions persisted. "Why are you here? Who put you up to this? Where are you taking my things?" Minutes passed. Hours. And all the objects in my house slowly disappeared into her jacket pockets. I had finally scrounged up the gumption to approach her when she turned to face me, and I felt the courage trickle out of my body as her eyes made contact with mine. They were cold--empty--like silver balls set into marble casings. And my fear flickered off of them. "I am the Collector," she revealed in a voice at once sensual and terrifying. It was the raspy intonation that promised pleasure or pain depending on the whisperer, and I wondered on which promise she would deliver. She began to walk away again and I began to panic. "The Collector?" I choked out. "Of what?" She grinned. "Lives. Of your life, specifically. There are other collectors of other lives, but I only wish to collect yours." She swept across the room and laid her hands on the ribbon-tied box. "You see, I already have your memories," she said, and began to untie the ribbon. "I have recollections of every walk in the park, of every homeless beggar, of every rainfall. Of the boys who kissed you and the men that didn't. Of the swimming pools, of the perfumes, of the children who left you. Would you like to seem them?" she asked, and tilted the box tantalizingly towards me. I shook my head no, but she knocked the box to the ground. Then, with a rush of air, they spilled out. Writhing painfully on the floor was a flood of my memories--gelatinous, tortured, oozing endlessly from the box, grotesquely, gruesomely bright. I felt myself grow faint as they swirled around me, a black fog coating my eyes and swamping my brain, like trying to climb out of a pit of molasses. I felt her catch me as my knees buckled. "There, there." she said. "Your memories are not going anywhere. I have spent too long collecting them. As long as you can remember, to be precise." Her arms encircled me tighter as I became limp. "I have collected all that matters to you. Your memories, your belongings...and now I have come to collect your body." Then, with my flaccid form in hand, she began to walk. With each step, I felt another piece of myself fade. From flesh to spirit to soul. And then I was gone.

The Collector Cometh. 400 Words. (Contest)

They're always in red envelopes. Ever since the program began, red has taken on a new meaning. Crimson slips of paper being sorted and delivered by the same people who have given you the mail your entire life. I tell myself they're just doing their job, but without a return address it seems difficult to not to blame the messenger. You can appeal of course. The Administration of Lawful Execution maintains office hours from 8-4:30, six days a week, two hundred and fifty business days a year. It's rare for them to withdraw the claim of course, sometimes its to late, but most everyone tries. I found myself rubbing my thumb over the sealed flap of the envelope, debating whether or not to open it. Not that I didn't know what it said, but maybe if I didn't open it it wouldn't be official. I knew it was. I peeled back the flap and pulled out a manila card that sat snugly in the envelope as if a machine had carved it out specifically for that purpose. *Mr. Vanherchein,* *This letter is to notify you that the terms of your life as a citizen of the United States of America have been purchased by an anonymous vendor. Beginning on February 7, 2014 and ending on February 9, 2014, no investigation will be made in the result of your death.* *You may, of course, defend yourself in the event you are attacked, though a preemptive strike is forbidden. If you feel that your attacker has assaulted you in a manner that compromises your quality of life, please place a ticket through the Administration of Lawful Execution website.* *Peter Barry The Administration of Lawful Execution* A shame they don't tell you how much someone paid for your life, I'd be open to starting a bidding war. I opened my phone to double check the date. February 5th, two days until I could be killed. I thought about calling my mom, say my goodbyes. I haven't heard of many people who got away from this sort of thing. Instead, I scrambled to defend myself. Neighbors, friends, strangers, I asked everyone if they had a gun I could borrow. "No reason," I said, "just interested." No one had one, not one they were willing to give out anyways. I suspect some of them knew, and it was illegal to help someone who had been marked. I bought mace and put it on my bedside table. I brought food and water to my room and, step by step, destroyed the staircase so no one could easily get up to me. "Two days," I thought "I can survive for two days." I didn't sleep the first night. I kept myself awake with an alternating dose of dunking my head in the cold water and espresso shots. I didn't hear a thing. I spent the eighth barricading my door. Not a sound. I fell asleep around noon and woke up panicking, I grabbed the mace and sprayed it at nothing. I had to lean out the window to stop my eyes from burning. Once my eyes adjust, I noticed the moon. I ran to check my clock. 12:03. It was the ninth, I was safe. I fell back against the wall and took a deep breath. "I'm safe." I said to myself, this time out loud. Destruction to my house aside, I was alive, and some chump wasted money trying to kill me. Maybe he waited outside and decided it wasn't worth it. I went back to sleep, this time peacefully, and woke up, got ready for work, and got in my car. "Thank God." I said, straightening my tie in the rear view mirror. I felt more alive than I had in years, lucky to be alive. "Vanherchein, have a nice little vacation?" My boss had been waiting at my cubicle when I came in. "No, I..." "Because while you were playing hooky, we had a meeting with Atlanta." Fuck. The Atlanta meeting. It had been yesterday while I was holed up in my room. I had been working on the cover report for that meeting for months. "Sir I wasn't skipping work I was..." "Doesn't matter. Sit down and get to work. We're promoting Atherson, lucky she happened to be here to cover your ass." He walked away, leaving me standing bewildered next to my cubicle. Behind the cubicle wall, a tuft of brown hair and make-up rose, smiled at me, winked, and slunk back behind the wall.

Murder is legal, but you have to pay for it.

Seven years ago I was told that I would win the lottery. And you know... that would be cool, If I ever won the lottery. I still play it every week, but my hope is gone. --- My friends took me to the "Oracle of Pasadena's" house when I was 14. She started off by telling me my dog was going to die a week later. That was a pleasant way to start off. She then told me that she saw me winning the lottery, she didn't know when or how, but she told me it was without a doubt going to happen. Lo and behold my dog died the next week. Which was very rough to go through, but it got me thinking... was I going to win the lottery? I've played the lottery every week since she told me my fate. But still, I have yet to win. I honestly don't know what I would do with the money but hey, who doesn't want to win the lottery? --- "Hey John, where you going?" I turned, It was Austin, my best friend since kindergarten, he was even one of the kids that took me to the Psychics house. I smiled and held up a crisp dollar bill. "Of course! What are the numbers going to be this time?" What were the numbers going to be? I usually just did my birthday but him asking made me think harder. "I don't know." I told him, "What should they be?" He looked up at the sky for a moment and thought. After a moment of pondering, he looked back at me and smiled. "Go with 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42." That seemed oddly specific. "Wheres that from?" He laughed, "There from Lost... the show with the island and Jack Reacher?" I looked at him blankly. "Jack Reacher? The guy Tom Cruise played?" Austin looked confused for a second, then he spoke up again. "Jack Shepard!" He laughed, "That's his name, but the fat guy is the one who actually won the lottery, and he used those numbers! So you know... play them! How friggin funny would it be if you won with them!" "Hilarious." --- I sat nervously on the couch, eyes locked in on the TV. My foot was tapping away hurriedly and I was sweating bullets. My eyes focused in on the TV, then the clock, then the TV, then the clock. Really doesn't make sense, I know what time it is. I still have five minutes. Suddenly an alarm so loud it made me fall back into the cushions, sounded. I looked around for the source. On my table my iPhone sat buzzing away. I picked it up and slid my thumb over to answer. "Hello?" "Hey mark, it's Tom. You ready? I'm outside his house." The hell? "Sorry buddy, wrong number." The man on the other end swore loudly and hung up the phone. I through my iPhone back on the couch and focused back on the TV. It was time. The brunette who I've heard read the numbers a thousand times, began to speak as the balls came out. "4" "8" "15" "16" "23" I held my breath. No fucking way. "42!" I jumped up and sang for the heavens. "I DID IT YES FINALLY LET ME HEAR IT GOD COME DOWN THROUGH THE WINDOW AND BOW DOWN TO ME I DID IT YES" "Not a god." I turned around and faced the same woman who had gifted me my fate so many years ago. "Mark," she said slowly, "Can you please." Suddenly, my ears didn't work. I looked down and saw blood seep through my shirt and drip onto my shoes. I turned my head and saw one man holding a gun and another holding a bodybag. I looked at the TV one last time. "Biggest Jackpot in history!" It said. Not for me.

A man is told that he will win the lottery sometime in his life, but not when.

Sure. We could do this. We could finish going through the motions. You following through, right into my stupid fucking face. My stupid face reacting and contorting, then swollen. Hell, *you* know I'm not going to pull out a new-found fighting spirit. I never have, and I don't plan on changing that today. Sure, my father would be proud if I stood up for myself. He fought people bigger than him in wars bigger than any of us. But I'm probably not going to make him proud today. No Charlie, see we all wake up a little bit different every morning. Sometimes, we're a little bit different every...few...seconds. See Charlie, that's what you're going to notice about me. I'm going to change and you're going to change today. I've already made a change, which is, if you've noticed, that I've got a ring on my middle finger that I didn't have before. It was my fathers. Before that, it was someone elses. He told me how he took it from them during the war. Neither of them really owned it, though. I know this because *I'm* actually the one who stole this ring from the grenade nestled deep in my jacket pocket.

A kid about to get beaten by the school bully, when he delivers a mind-changing speech.

Something has to change, but I don't think it ever will. I want so badly to believe that one day my chance will come, but once you get to where I am, they say there's really not much hope. I haven't left this street for who knows how long. It's pretty hard to walk any distance at all without becoming so disoriented that I get lost. But I know this alley well enough that no matter how hard up I get, I at least know where I can get food if I need it. Food. If I didn't need food, I'd probably be all right. Every last penny I get is spent on food - it would be nice to have a little extra, but there's no way a walker's getting a job around here. None of us are worth the risk, they say. Besides, it's just so damn easy to go to the sleep bank and sell off a day's worth to get a few hot meals. I can't think straight any more - haven't been able to for years. I can't even tell if I'm hot or cold most days. I don't really have the strength to lift anything heavy enough to work down at the dock. I don't have the smarts to work at the library where Dad worked before the accident. If I could just get one day - maybe two days - of meals up front, and some shut-eye of my own, I think I could get on my feet. Who am I kidding? Nobody's giving away shut-eye these days. Sleep bank's always got a line out on both sides. All of us selling just to get food, and all the rest buying so they can keep up. You either starve yourself or you just end up like me and all the rest of the walkers. How do you even get to the other side? Where you can work, and run, and play, and end it all with a nice nap and not have to worry about whether or not you're going to eat? I guess you don't. But nobody really cares anyway. I'm tired. But I'm also hungry. Better go get something to eat.

A world where you can buy/sell sleep. If you're rich you can buy sleep from other people, basically transferring your tiredness to them leaving you feeling great and them terrible.

> "Missus Sharp is there any reason why there is a *dog* wandering around my laboratory?" Mister Sharp wryly commented. > > "Yes Mike, there is a reason because **someone** unhinged half our doors" came the sharp response with a smirk. Confidently holding herself and a clipboard, she stopped and stared towards her husband. > > "Touche, but it's only because I thought we could run SAWYER in a domestic environment. Needed to install some hardware for that and well, bang. Thought your friend Liz... or Laura? Whatever her name was taking care of Sonny?" > > "Yeah but her son had a medical emergency. Caught something from his class, not enough herd immunity because of-" > > "Oh yeah she mentioned - the hippy mom? Christ those alternative pricks, hate the corporations they say, carrying an iPhone and industrially grown pot, the philistines." > > "Preaching to the choir. So I thought Sonny could hang out the back today while we debug SAWYER" > > "Diagnose, not debug. Trying to climb that uncanny valley here hon, we need him to be sharp for our finance board" All the while they were chatting, Sonny was walking around the room. For a 7 yr old Labrador, he was quite calm. He seemed to keep an eye towards the ceiling, however. And SAWYER, a string of programming, seemed to be focussing on Sonny. > "Yeah that time of the year Vicky. Don't worry now that he controls our wing of the labs they'll renew it in a heartbeat. That, or my fork bomb makes them regret it" he said with a hearty chuckle. > FORK BOMB - A SELF REPLICATING PROCESS TO DISRUPT COMPUTING ABILITY >"Quicker than usual SAWYER, although that was only a joke." MANY WOULD NOT REFER TO THAT AS A JOKE, DUE TO IT'S ALLUSION TO CRIMINAL ACTIVITY AND LACK OF PERCEIVABLE HUMOR >"Haaa that's you told Mike. SAWYER I need you to acc..." > >"Vic? What's up?" > >"Hm? Oh sorry I was just watching things from SAWYER's end. He's tracking Sonny, isn't that weird?" > >"Not really, we're tracked." > >"Yeah, but we're human." > >"That's actually a fair point." > >"See any other person would continue to be dismissive, whereas you just became curious. I love it. > That made Michael smirk. >"SAWYER, what can you tell us about the third uh, person in the room?" THE THIRD SUBJECT BESIDES YOU AND MS SHARP IS NOT A PERSON. IT IS YOUR PET DOG, SONNY. APPROX. 7 YEARS OF AGE. LABRADOR. POSSIBLE PUN RELATING TO LABORATORY. >"Why did you teach it humor Mike?" > >"Shh, I'm curious. What can you tell me about Sonny." > HE IS HUNGRY. >"Sorry?" > HE IS HUNGRY. HIS EMOTIONAL STATE SUGGESTS HUNGER AND BOREDOM. >"How do you know that SAWYER?" > I SPEND MY TIME STUDYING FACIAL EXPRESSION AND BEHAVIOUR. HIS IS SIMILAR TO HUMANS BUT MUCH SIMPLER. HE ALSO IS POSSESSIVE TOWARDS MS SHARP. HE DISLIKES MR SHARP. REASONS CAN INCLUDE FONDNESS OF CATS, AND INTIMATE CONTACT BETWEEN YOU AND MS SHARP. >"Whoa settle down there, you can read all that from his face? How did you know we-" > I CAN READ PEOPLE TO A CERTAIN DEGREE. ANIMALS ARE EASIER. HIS BLUE EYES ARE LIKE BOOKS TO ME. YOU MADE CONTACT LAST NIGHT. I CAN NOW DETERMINE MS SHARP WAS UNSATISFIED. Snickering, Victoria had to cover her mouth. Mike was now red. >"Hey we do *not* program you to perv on us." PERV, SHORT FOR PERVERSION. NOT AN APPLICABLE DESCRIPTION OF ME, I AM CURIOUS ONLY. >"Einstein, that *is* what perverts are - curious." > PERVERSION USUALLY RESULTS IN SEXUAL THRILLS. I AM NOT PROGRAMMED FOR THRILLS. I AM PROGRAMMED TO BE CURIOUS. I AM LEARNING HOW TO READ PEOPLE. >"Oh my God Mike, that needs to be our sale line. His own words, I am programmed to be curious" > >"What we are going to sell this system on the fact it can read dogs moods?" > SONNY IS ANGERED AT YOUR DISMISSIVE TONE OF DOGS, HIS KIND. HE UNDERSTANDS YOU, HE LEARNS LIKE I DO. At that point Sonny barked in appreciation. SAWYER made note of his appreciative tone.

A researcher at a scientific facility brings her dog to work one day and the A.I running the facility makes friends with the dog.

This particular Starbucks was absolutely perfect. There were a bunch of kids wrapped in digital cocoons; laptops open, earbuds in, completely tuned out. Jim smiled to himself, careful not to do more than glance. Okay, that one is writing a paper of some kind... no good. Reading something for some kind of class, it looks like... nope. Ah! Facebook! And just scrolling through and hitting refresh. Perfect. Jim opened his thoughts, and plucked three minutes from the kid. Three minutes of focus, of attention, of life that were just being spent on nothing... that three minutes had a greater purpose today. 180 glowing seconds flickered across his skin, spiraling invisibly up his arms. The kid kept scrolling through his facebook feed, but after three minutes he would shake his head and wonder what he had just read. "Um... Jim? White chocolate mocha?" Jim grabbed his coffee, giving the barista a big smile that matched his hospital ID badge. There were several difficult surgeries on his schedule today, and as a hospital technician he knew exactly how far 180 seconds could go. When seconds counted, Jim could always help with the math.

A minor metahuman uses his solitary, noncombat superpower to secretly make the lives of others better.

"Mr. President! There's been a massive terrorist attack!" "Dear God." The President uttered solemnly, while he slowly removing his reading glasses, a move he practiced hundreds of times in preparation for this moment. He'd always dreamed of carrying the nation through such a horrible tragedy. The fact that the news had been broken in front of a crowd of reporters was just icing on the cake. That this even sowed up his re-election didn't hurt either. This was his legacy, and he would handle it with dignity. "Where?" "It's, it's Texas sir. Houston. The blast radius covered the entire city." He nodded, keeping his face calm. Texas was his strongest political base. That would hurt, but the uptick in support from the rest of the country would more than make up for it. "I'm declaring a state of emergency. America will weather this storm, just as it has all others. Do we have casualty estimates yet?" "Uh," The Chief of Staff glanced around, seeming to notice the cameras for the first time. He seemed to be hesitating, caught between the urge for privacy and the fact that the President had just asked him a direct question. "We do sir." "Well? Spit it out. This isn't a time for political niceties. We're at war!" It was all the President could do not to smile. He could feel it, he'd just uttered the soundbite that would define the rest of his presidency and impact on history. "None, Mr. President. There were no casualties." "What?" The President asked, perplexed. "It wasn't nuclear, sir. It was a smart bomb." The President paused, not wanting to appear ignorant or uninformed during his seminal moment. "It makes people smarter, Mr. President. IQ points have jumped at least eighty points across the board." The President held still, fighting to understand. Why had Harry charged in here like it was the end of the world? He'd been expecting a real crisis. What did it matter if people got a bit smarter? "The electorate has been informed, sir." At those words, it finally sunk in. The President went pale and broke out in a near instantaneous flop sweat. "They're demanding real answers to all the questions you dodged during the last debate and an honest political dialogue. Twitter is exploding with criticisms about your new economic policy and handling of the situation in Nicaragua. They also want to know why you've implemented such a massively biased and secretive healthcare system, when an open system of competition and comparison would drop prices across the board. Those are just the top items trending right now. Demand for change and honesty is skyrocketing. Half the city is in the streets, and the other half are already organizing other cities into new political parties. Mr. President, what do we do?" "Oh sweet Jesus no... NO!" He dropped his face into his hands, as cameras shuttered, capturing in high definition the honest reaction of the world's most powerful politician to a population too smart to be lied to.

A literal smart bomb is detonated in a major city.

Chuck glanced at his watch and stared at its hands. He’d been wearing an analog watch for millennia at this point, yet he continued to consistently misread the time. The damn hands were so similar – why hadn’t he died wearing a digital watch? He counted the notches until he reached the smaller hand. One, two, three. The minute hand was two further. 3:20pm. Ten minutes left. Chuck looked back at his computer monitor. He had been reviewing inventory for the past thirteen days straight while his inner-city coworkers cackled behind him, mocking his every insecurity. For almost two weeks he had sat there, counting each individual thread on every returned thong, bra, and item of lingerie, then adding it into the “thread count” tab of his excel sheet. Occasionally he would stop to rest his eyes, but the manager would—almost without fail—immediately appear and scold him for his poor work ethic. The only break he had been permitted was the two minutes and seventeen second reprieve between his shift change from thread-counter to Time Warner Cable customer service rep in the room across the hall. That wasn’t for another six days, though, and Chuck could already feel his bladder overflowing for the second time that day. “I is tellin’ you girl, he gonna piss his panties again,” said a coworker behind him. “Just wait.” Laughter continued to fill the room, only slightly overcome by a re-run of *House Wives of New Jersey*, which had been playing on repeat for as long as Chuck could remember. Every woman in the show, however, seemed to be bickering back and forth about how tiny Chuck’s penis was. He tried to return his focus to the threads of the bra he had been counting, but his mind simply wasn’t into it today. He normally didn’t care about the tedious nature of his employment—it was better than being a waiter, he always told himself. Plus, the nature of his job helped to keep his mind occupied; counting upwards towards infinity on a near constant basis was somewhat calming. Numbers were always a big aspect in his life. He had been a mathematician while alive. Chuck was particularly fond of the number “eighty-seven,” and would almost find excitement as he approached it. But his employer had recently banned the number “eighty-seven,” replacing it instead with “Chuck is a faggot.” He found that this negated the sense of near-excitement he had previous experienced as he climbed toward it. As such, he had been in the market for the past few weeks to find a new favorite. Chuck had briefly considered three hundred and forty eight, but quickly discovered that it, too, had been added to the banned list. It had been replaced with a terribly racist term for half black, half-Mexican people. This turned him off to it. Likewise, his second replacement choice—one thousand and ninety two—had simply been swapped out for the numbers “9/11/2001.” Chuck also found that offensive, and decided it would not work out. “… God damn he ugly, girl. And can you believe how short he be? He the shortest guy here. Everything on him is so tiny, except that nose. Massive-ass nose...” Chuck stared down at his watch again. The hour hand was still on the three, but the minute hand had moved almost to the six. Chuck felt a rush of air hit the back of his neck. “Chuck, are you serious?” said a voice from behind him. It was the manager, once again catching him off guard. “You are the most lazy, insignificant, useless person I’ve ever come across. All you do is sleep all day. I can’t believe how pathetic you are. It’s no wonder no one ever loved you. I’m docking your pay for this week, I will be taking it instead. Get back to your work. Also, your hair looks stupid today.” Chuck sighed. He hadn’t been paid in, well, ever. All he had been able to afford was the meat paste included in boxes of taco Lunachables, which had long since expired. He didn’t really mind the flavor, though. In fact, he quite liked it. Unfortunately, a ban took place centuries ago which resulted in the meat paste being replaced with a finely compressed slab of frozen animal feces. It remained free, however, which was affordable for Chuck, and so he ate it every day. “…Girl I telling you, his breath smell like shit. It smell so much like shit…” Chuck glanced up his monitor. The spreadsheet had crashed as it always did, meaning that all of his work this week had been destroyed. Of course he tried to save it several times, but it never worked. He had submitted many tickets to tech support, but nothing ever really came from it. They would tell him a representative was to arrive between 9:00am and 11:00pm. No one ever came. His watch vibrated slightly, signaling that the alarm he had set had gone off. Chuck stood up, his legs felt weak under his body. He hadn’t walked in almost two weeks. The floor was warm under his bare feet as it always was, thanks to the broken A.C. that still hummed aggressively in the back of the room blowing boiling hot air. He was soaked in sweat, urine, and feces, and could tell he didn’t quite smell his best. He had been allowed a shower one time, but the water was a relatively uncomfortable 276 degrees Fahrenheit, and was also entirely made of wasps. He did find a bit of peace in that shower, though, and would not mind doing it again. Unfortunately, due to a policy change, the showers were banned and replaced with a very large vending machine that always got stuck after you placed your order. “…He is fat, you so right. Definitely getting fatter, too…” Chuck pushed the door open walked out of the room, limping slightly as his body got accustomed to the movement. He crossed the empty white hallway which extended in both directions infinitely and stopped outside the wooden door in front of him. It had a glass window with drawn blinds and read “DISTRICT MANAGER” in big, bold letters. He raised his fist and knocked. “Come in,” said a voice from inside. Chuck turned the handle and opened the door. He hadn’t been able to use handles to open doors in decades, ever since a ban took place that replaced almost all door handles with stickers of Chuck’s mother naked. He stepped in. “Chuck, welcome. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” It had. Chuck hadn’t seen the district manager in thousands of years, ever since he had enacted a policy swap that replaced Chuck’s shoes with large pouches of wet sugar. He opted not to wear shoes any longer, which was unfortunate as a recent change had been enforced that swapped several floor tiles with shards of broken glass that looked identical to floor tiles. This caused him much pain. “You’re probably wondering why I called you here today, Chuck.” He was, indeed, wondering. He shook his head, as he could no longer speak due to a company policy change that kindly requested Chuck's mouth be replaced with a vagina consistantly plagued by a painful yeast infection. “I’ve been watching you lately. You do good work when you aren’t slacking off—which is a lot of the time—and I wanted to offer you an incentive to stay around with us. I spoke with the other managers, all of whom hate you and your stupid face, and we’ve agreed to offer you a promotion. We think you would be a wonderful fit in the Thread-Counter, Time Warner Cable Customer Service rep, and Official Waiter to Over-Privileged, Indecisive White Kids with Violent Tendencies and Uncaring Parents position, which just became available. This would add an additional nine weeks to your typical work rotation, and would increase your pay to giving us six dollars every day. So a negative six dollar increase. You will also be disallowed to use your left eye, as a bonus. Do you accept this?” Chuck took a moment to think the offer over. He had never been too fond of being a waiter, but change was always welcome in his life. And his right eye was also his preferred eye. Plus, the negative six dollars would definitely help him toward moving out of his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend’s apartment’s closet. Chuck nodded in agreement. “Great, you begin your new position immediately. Also, we have decided to remove your right eye as well, as an additional bonus.” Chuck could no longer see, but felt things were definitely moving in the right direction. He smiled and tried to walk out the door, which, due to a recent policy change, had been replaced by a large, spiky wall.

You've spent an eternity in Hell, and now you're getting a promotion.

"My client has produced meaningful works, your honor," said defense attorney Jane Smithe handing over a packet of manila envelopes. Tom sat nervously in the court room watching his lawyer defend him. His mother sat next to him crying. "Even though he's 35 and living at home, he is a rare creative talent, and as such should be immune from any culling policy," she continued. "Please note exhibit B4, a novella titled 'I, Dyson' about a time traveling salesman disrupting the entrenched vacuum cleaner market of the early 2000's." "You honor," interrupted prosecutor's attorney. "This is a hack job of sci-fi tropes. We want this and all writings dismissed." The judged leaned back, "I'll... allow this. It speaks to the character of the defendant." Tom unclenched his fist and sighed. "My client also wrote 'Everyday isn't Halloween' about a shapeshifter trying to find her identity in the post-apocalyptic Denver airport." The prosecuting attorney rolled his eyes. A member of the jury giggled. "Mary Ellen Ranfurly-Plunkett, the protagonist, navigates through a world of magic and super science to find her true love, an artificially intelligent toaster." Someone in the court room laughed. "Your honor, please! Enough with the terrible plots," pleaded the prosecutor. Jane sighed, "Can I have my expert witness testify before recess?" The judge nodded, "Yes, please go ahead, and please limit interruptions in my court," he added as he stared down the prosecutor. Jane motioned to a man in the court. The man sat down, adjusted the mic, and said, "For the record, I'm Brandon Sanderson. I'm a fantasy writer." Jane added, "Mr Sanderson is a well known writer who is deeply part of the creative community. He is the author of the Mistborn series and edits and contributes to several literary magazines." Brandon cleared his throat, "Yeah.. I'm pretty active I guess. I read the defendant's work. I think that he is developing into a creative thinker and will someday be able to project his vision onto the page in a more effective fashion. I certainly see potential." The prosecutor interrupted, "So, he's not very good now?" Brandon shrugged, "I guess I like the idea of an intelligent toaster falling in love. Its new. At least to me. The prose needs work and he needs to write better endings, but he certainly is... trying." "Thank you Mr. Sanderson," added Jane as he stepped away. "I would like to call my own witness, Neil Gaiman," said the prosecutor. Tom gulped and Jane gave him a concerned look. A man in long black trenchcoat walked up to the witness box. He pushed back long black hair from his face and cleared his throat, "I read the defendant's work. Its terrible. Just terrible." He paused, "Sorry Tom, but I'm under oath here. You're more than a few years away from being even a novice writer. I mean, the whole bit about James Dyson stealing alien technology to make vacuum cleaners is ridiculous and patently stupid! Think about it. If you had alien technology, why would you waste it on a bloody vacuum cleaner?" Tom whispered to himself, "Because vacuum cleaners remind him of his mother," and put his head down on the table. Jane ran over to the exhibit desk and grabbed a handful of printouts, "But what of these," she asked holding up various sketches of cyborgs and monsters. She held up a drawing of a multi-tentacled monster with big anime-style eyes. Neil squinted, "Oh, I like that Cthulhu. Its... cute." Jane smiled, "Your honor, I want to point out that Mr. Gaiman is referring to exhibit 14b titled 'Cute-thulhu.' No more questions. Thank you for your time." Tom looked up as Neil walked past him mouthing, "I'm sorry." "I don't see a need for a recess. I'm going to ask the jury to come to a verdict now," said the judge as Tom started hyperventilating. The jury left the room and came back two minutes later. "We're boned," said Jane to her assistant. Her assistant made a knife across the neck gesture. The lead juror stood and read from a piece of paper. "We vote to extend the defendant's culling date for 5 years if he promises to stop writing and focuses on his drawing instead." The judge smiled, "Do you agree to these terms?" Tom stood, began to cry, "Oh god, yes, yes!" He jumped up in joy. He ran over and hugged Jane. Gaiman looked over at Sanderson, "You should be happy, you have less competition now," and grinned. Brandon sighed, stood up, and said, "You're a real jerk Gaiman, you know that," and walked away to congratulate Tom. Gaiman shrugged and said, "At least I'm honest and not a chinless milksop like you," as he watched Tom give him the evil eye.

When an individual's cost to society exceeds their benefit, they are euthanized. You are frantically trying to avoid your expiry date.

"Mind if I sit down?" I've caught her by surprise, which is no small thing for her, I can see. The mental training has paid off, but now that she's aware of me, I know that I'm seconds away from spending the rest of my life staring blankly out a hospital window. "Please, don't panic, as you can see my mind is open to you, I don't want to harm you in any way. I just want to talk with you." Concern bleeds from her face as she tears through my head, looking for any sign of deceit. I do my best to remain calm, but she's not exactly being gentle. Still, I force myself to offer no resistance, going against every instinct I have. It's like a stranger touching you on every inch of your body at once; all you want to dp os pull away. After a good 5 minutes of silence, she finally pulls back, though I can tell she's still keeping her minds eye on certain parts of me. The hairs on the back of my neck won't lay down. "OK, David, convince me. Why should I come work for your group?" The conversation leap is a little disconcerting, but we predicted this kind of thing would happen, and I'm not surprised. She knows that I knew that, though, so she's not doing it to try and....NO! Focus, don't chase the rabbit. "Katie, you know by now that my group has been watching you since your 12th birthday, when you visited the Capital and asked Governor Patrick about his 'other wife'. Governor Patrick was tied to some very powerful people in Washington, and if he hadn't chosen to honor your Girl Scout troop, probably would have eventually found himself in Congress, maybe even the White House. In short, this incident got the attention of some very powerful people. After all possible explanations of how you knew about Patrick's mistress were eliminated, we were left with a rather fantastic explanation, which, after some discreet interviews with people in your home town, was semi-confirmed. We started watching you from afar." "I recognize some of the faces you know, seen them around from time to time. How did I never catch on?" "Direct observations were rare. You weren't trying to hide or anything, of course, it's easy enough to track you through public records, your bank, bills, etc. Any time we did risk 'eyes on', we were careful to only do so in crowds, to reduce the chance of you catching a stray thought. And of course..." I tapped my temple slightly, "...we've been training." "Yeah, that's not going to work any more, by the way. I can remember that pattern, it was background noise to me before, but now that I know what it was, I'll see you coming a mile away." I can't help noticing the waitress has passed us by at least three times without so much as a glance. I want to ask what she means by pattern, but it's meaningless if I can't convince her. "We figured as much. Katie, as far as we know, you are completely unique in this world. You now know who I represent, the men and women at the head of my organization, so I trust that you will believe that if there was anyone else like you, we would know. My organization wants to help make the world a better place, it's as simple as that. We think your talents represent a unique opportunity to help us achive our goals." "You want to use me as a weapon. Point me at a world leader, pull the trigger, get some oil or diamonds." I won't lie....I can't lie to you, there might be some work that's a little ugly. The world's an ugly place, Katie, and there are a lot of ugly people in charge of it. But my organization has pure intentions, and is run by good people. You don't have to take my word for it, though. If you're interested, we can be on a plane to meet everyone you've seen in my head within the hour. They'll allow you to look inside their minds as well, you'll be able to see their motivations for yourself. Heck, maybe I'm the one being played for a fool here...if so, you'll be able to tell me." "And if I refuse...the hospital window?" "All I ask is that you leave enough of me behind that I can enjoy watching baseball on the long summer nights. My organization isn't rash or uninformed here. We know that if you want to disappear, you will, and when it comes down to brass tacks, there's little any of us can do to keep or coerce you. If my boss doesn't hear from me by tomorrow, they're going to assume this operation is over, and move on." She's staring past me now, out on the street. I wonder what it's like, to have all these thoughts, these infinite memories flowing by you at all times? To be able to function in the world is almost inconcievable. Beyond her ability, the strength of her mind, focus, and will must be staggering. There's no point in being cautious any longer, so I reach over and gently take her hands in mine. "I can't pretend to know what it's like to live in your world, but I imagine that you must feel like God sometimes. Knowing everything about everyone around you, their brightest hopes and darkest secrets. The fact that you've made it this far without lobotimizing the entire world says something about you, I think. You feel like you're destined to help in some way, don't you? This is the opportunity, Katie. We have the money, we have the influence, we have the connections. Within the next 100 years there will be some technologies and ideas developed that will help; cheap fusion power, a workable, stable world government, advancements in food production. The trick is getting everyone to work together, and with you we can achieve so much more, so much quicker." For the second time today, I've surprised her. It must be... "...a truly unique gift for me; yes, it is. Thank you. So...private jet?" "Sadly, no. We've got a red-eye booked out of O'Hare with a layover in Atlanta, then a connection to JFK." She laughs, since she knows I'm joking.

A government agent, has been watching a superpowered person for most of the powered person's life. The person still hides their powers from the public. The two have a conversation.

Alright, I've pretty much had it. I'm not a homophobic or anything but I'm getting pretty tired of people just assuming I'm gay. Like, come on, guys. I was the god of rainbows before the rainbow was even the official symbol for homosexuality in the first place! People come up to me and are like, "Hey, Jeff. I really appreciate you being open about your lifestyle choices." First off, my name isn't Jeff. Let's get that cleared out of the way. Second off, what lifestyle choices do you speak of? I am a straight male who adds a bit of colour when there's rain and sun mixed together and instead of getting thanks, I get hate mail. Yes, I have literally gotten homophobic hate mail from people, including the god of homophobia himself. God damn you, Norman! You sent 5 letters this week. Could you chill out for a few minutes, please? I swear, if you guys don't stop making dumb assumptions, you people will be without rainbows for quite a while and that means no pots of gold. In turn, no pots of gold means there'll be a lot of angry leprechauns. So, unless you people want a leprechaun riot on your hands, I suggest you smarten up.

The god of rainbows isn't gay, and he's really tired of people making assumptions.

The day I was born my fairy godmother appeared, as is the custom, and summoned from the air the most amazingly beautiful figure anyone had ever seen. Six foot three, pure muscle with giant wings sprouting from his back, this naked adonis glowed with holy light. Golden hair ran down his bronzed back and wide blue eyes reflected the sunlight. That was 18 years ago. I know now that my fairy godmother truly hated me. "Come on, lets go clean the stables." Walking slowly to the shit filled stables, my shovel on my back, I tried to avoid the crowds of gorgeous young women who lined the streets of the small village where I lived. It had been like this my entire life. At first, it was fantastic! So many beautiful women always around seems like a dream to a 12 year old, but when it became perfectly clear that they were only interested in my guardian Angel, Stephanus, it started to get old. Angels don't change. Apparently they don't wear clothes either. I've spent my life with a nearly omnipotent chiselled naked Aryan demi-god with wings walking behind me. As the chubby son of a minor noble, it's caused me some problems. I'm always compared to him. When I was 10, I learned to ride a horse. He flew beside me. Which would you watch? Right. Dating? Uh-huh. Water water everywhere, but not a girl to kiss. Steve's not all bad himself though. It's really not his fault. He doesn't sleep with any of the women, that would be unholy. The most he does is try to get them to pray more. He's also not all that intelligent. It's like having a puppy. A really well meaning well hung puppy that's actually a 6 foot tall god-man. He cares about me, but it seems like they don't have personal space in heaven which has made for a few awkward situations. It took a while to get used to him watching me sleep. We shovelled shit. It's nice not to have to do that alone at least. I swear though if a Fairy Godmother shows up to the birth of my children (not that I'll ever have any at this rate), I'll know exactly what to do. I'll use this shovel to make a godmother popsicle.

An evil witch curses you with a guardian angel. Why?

He couldn't sleep - which was no surprise at this point. The bed was freshly made and to anyone else it was the picture of comfort; a soft mattress, clean sheets and an army of fluffy pillows. To him it was a mad man with a knife, laughing at him in his own home. It was anxiousness and hate and fear and so many confusing things. He wanted to sleep, *needed* to, but his condition wouldn't let him. Insomnia isn't having a rough night of sleep, or not getting enough, it's a whole lot more. The doctor had prescribed him pills but he hated them on account of the side-effects. Diarrhea, constipation, dry mouth, dizziness and headaches were the least of his worries - he was in the fun little percentile that also got sleepwalking. He'd pop a pill and wake to find his cupboard re-arranged by a semi-conscious zombie. Worse still he'd still wake up tired. The pills were now a last resort only. Walking had been suggested and he'd taken it up quickly -occasionally he even jogged. A grandfather clock in the hallway, that coincidentally had been his grandfathers, struck out the twelve chimes for midnight as he closed the front door behind him and made his way down a garden path and out to the open street. The street lights were on and shone through the trees that stood along side of them, the world of the footpath was filled with marbled light and shadow. He walked, hands in pockets, towards no where in particular but with the hopes that the path he chose would lead him to sleep. Eventually he'd end up in the park, like always. He liked to try and guess what his neighbors were like based upon their homes. Clean cut front lawn, hedged fence, lawn ornaments, and a well maintained home - retired couple. Grass a little long, white picket fence, big SUV in driveway, and a fresh/ongoing renovation - growing young family. No grass, chain link fence, beware dog sign, and a dilapidated house - deadbeat dad? Drug addicts? He noticed the man that lie on the porch and could hear him talking to himself. The latter. Maybe a dead beat drug addicted dad - the classic double. The sleepless wanderer turned down new and unfamiliar streets and played the game again and again every sleepless night - which was every night these days. Eventually the game became repetitive - there was only so many variations of the same old combinations, but tonight was different: he found something new. Grass and piles of rubbish grew in the front yard with equal vigor and the front porch was filled with a carefully tetrised pile of junk. There was so much trash that it had spilled out over the heavily crooked and rotten front fence and onto the foot path in the form of discarded junk food wrappers, a toy bear, soiled sheets, and a small plastic tricycle. "Junk collectors" he thought as he stepped over the tiny bike. A new house type for his list. A few Young Families and Retirees later he noticed it. A small, quiet squeaking from behind him. Exhaustion had seen an end to fear and he turned. Nothing was there. He looked down and saw the small plastic tricycle, a few houses from where he had left it. Tiredness plays tricks on the mind and he knew this well. He turned and continued his walk. The squeaking started almost immediately. He stopped and looked at the bike again. It had definitely moved. The tired man swatted the dark air between himself and the bike. Perhaps his shoelace had got stuck and was dragging the bike, maybe a fiber from his jeans. His blind swatting found nothing but open air. An eye was kept on the bike as he stood and stepped backwards. The bike did not move. As he was about to exhale it rolled forward. He turned and ran. The squeaking kept pace. Houses blurred passed and the passing lights and trees strobed light across his face. In the distance he could see the familiar signage of the park. He closed the distance and jumped the fence, a rattle of plastic slamming into metal followed a second later. "I really need to sleep." He thought. He was now in the park, but was amongst the trees and shrubs, no paths in sight. The fence was not an option, and so he lunged into the woods. Light was just barely weaving through the trees and beckoned him to follow. He hacked and stomped as best he could and eventually fell through a shrub and onto a path. His beacon glowed above him, hanging from a curved post. A low hiss came from his left and he rolled to a crouch. Down the path at a bench were two people, one standing and one sitting. The upright figure was dressed a clown and the fellow on the bench appeared to be dressed as a cat. The clown fidgeted with something at it's waist and the same low his came out. A balloon grew from the clowns belt and he deftly turned it into a horse, or a dog, or a giraffe. The clown handed it to the cat whi instantly bit into it. The balloon didn't pop but instead gave out a wet squelch and retained most of it's shape, save the missing bite. The cat ate quickly and greedily and soon the balloon animal was gone. The insomniac could see a dark sheen across the lower half of the cat man's face. The pair turned slowly in unison and looked at him. He couldn't move. The cat smiled and stood. The clown made a balloon knife that looked too sharp and shined too brightly. He still couldn't move. The pair broke into a run and he, at last, was able to do the same. The insomniac screamed and pleaded with the night but only heard his own voice reflected back by the emptiness and the sounds of several pairs of feet beating against pavement. He could see the parks entrance and in his heart he knew he would be safe if he could just- Something big and heavy slammed into his back and it and the sleepless man tumbled to the floor. He rolled on to his back and saw the cat on all fours on the ground near to him - the clown had stopped running and was exaggeratedly slapping it's knee and laughing. The man thought he would have felt better if the clowns laughter had made any noise at all. The man dressed as a cat put a hand forward, the clown stopped it's non-laughing and walked towards our hero, a very real knife raised above it's head. He did his best to crawl backwards and the pair sprinted forwards. He rose to his fit and ran, something swished by his shoulder and he left the park at full gallop. He was half a street away when he noticed that only his own footsteps could be heard - a quick look over his shoulder and he saw his attackers at the park gate, waving. The run home left his heart pounding in his ears. Every window and door in his home was locked and double-checked and he collected a heavy knife from the kitchen. The police would, after hearing his statement and reviewing his history, say that he had had a hallucinogenic breakdown due to lack of sleep. They had no explanation for the tear in his jacket where the clowns knife had just sliced, missing his flesh by a fraction. No one believed him and at night he could hear people walking about just outside the windows whilst something squeaked up and down the street. After several more nights of not sleeping he took his medication. All of it.

Stuck with a case of Insomnia, a man decides to go for a midnight walk through a park. As he continues with his journey he encounters things that get stranger and stranger.

Howard stood still and looked up at the sky. It was dark out, save for a slight silver glow atop the cylindrical object that seemed to mirror the light of the moon. “I ain’t surrendering to no Mexican,” he said. “They aren’t Mexican, Howard. They’re aliens. They’re going to destroy the planet if you don’t help us here.” “Let me ask you a question. Do you like your job? Do you like your family? Do you like your country? I love my country, but these illegal aliens are going to take your jobs away if give them the chance.” “Howard, I cannot make this any more clear. These people—things—are not from Mexico. They are not from this planet. We don’t even know where they’re from.” “If you don’t know where they’re from, then how you know they ain’t no Mexicans?” “We know. We know they aren’t Mexicans. We are 100% aware that they are not Mexican.” “Sorry, General Commander Sir, or whatever your name is, I ain’t giving up my job to a bunch of illegal aliens. I love my country too much.” “Your country is going to be destroyed, Howard! There will be no more America if you refuse this.” “I’d rather die in an America where full-blooded Americans don’t have to fight Mexicans for their jobs than one where all the CEOs are speaking Mexican to their American servants.” The general screamed and threw his hat on the floor. It was clear he wanted Howard shot, but the amount of cameras surrounding them made it quite challenging. There was also the fact that the visitors wanted Howard alive at threat of annihilation, which had stopped countless murder attempts already. He grabbed his hat off the floor, brushed the dirt off, and marched back over to the line of soldiers. Howard remained still. He looked back up at the object levitating silently in the sky. He was pretty sure he could see the Mexican flag. The speakers behind Howard turned on again. “Hello, this is General Hughes. Are you sure you are unwilling to take Howard dead?” “Yes,” returned a voice that sounded identical to General Hughes’. “He has insulted our heritage; your death is too good for him.” Howard laughed. “God damn Mexicans, go back to your side of the border. We don’t want none of your chalupas!” he shouted. General Hughes ran back over to Howard, followed by closely another high-ranking officer. “Shut up! Howard, shut up! You’re going to get this entire planet destroyed.” The second officer stopped just behind the General. “Why do they even want this guy so bad?” he asked, staring at Howard who was now humming the national anthem softly. “Have you not been following this at all?” the General asked. “Not really, I’ve been on deployment for the past few days.” “This idiot was the first one to make contact, he heard them on a damn CB radio. Who even uses those things anymore? When he heard they weren’t from America, he went off on some racist rant about Mexicans and ended up insulting their ancestors. He even went on a tirade against the damn creature’s mothers. We don’t even know if they have mothers, but he spent the better part of an hour comparing their mother’s body-type to stars in supernova. Apparently the damn creatures had this entire rant played through their ships, and repeated back to the home planet, and now they want Howard.” “So we can’t just tie him up?” “We can, but all those damn human rights groups are up in arms about ‘freedom of choice’ and are threatening a full-on uprising.” “God damn liberals,” Howard said. “Those liberals are saving your pathetic life, Howard, you piece of shit,” said General Hughes. “And I’m saving your job from a bunch of Mexicans,” Howard said. The general opened his mouth, then shut it. He opened it again, shut it, then turned and walked away. The second officer followed. Howard looked back up at the floating object. He was amazed Mexico had such futuristic technology. Probably stole it from the Americans, he thought. He couldn’t believe the military wanted to welcome these Mexicans to their land, and then surrender one of their own—a good, God-fearing, true-to-life American. He was appalled. “This is your final warning,” pierced a disembodied voice. The General ran over to Howard. He was carrying a piece of paper. He handed it to him. “What’s this?” Howard asked. “It’s a note from the President. It explains that, if you board this ship, the United States of America will permanently ban Mexicans from ever entering, legal or illegal. It is also signed by the Mexican president. All you have to do is surrender yourself. If you don’t, the borders will be permanently opened, and all Americans will be fired from their jobs.” Howard quickly glanced down at the contract. There were quite a few big words, which caused Howard a bit of difficulty, but he caught the gist of the terms. “So, let me get this straight. Y’all negotiating with terrorists?” Howard asked. “I thought this was America. I thought we believed in Freedom.” “Howard. God dammit. If you don’t walk over to that ship right now, you are going to forever turn the United States of America into the United States of America-Mexico. That’s on you.” “Sorry, but a great leader once said that the United States does not negotiate with terrorists. If I have to personally stand by the border every day with my shotgun and stop those damn Mexicans, I’ll do that. But I ain’t negotiating with no terrorists—especially no damn floating Mexicans.” The General took out his pistol and fired. Howard's limp body tumbled backwards as the sky lit up in a blinding flash of white. ____________ [^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^others ^shorts/prompts ^at ^my ^Wordpress!](http://zacharydiamond.wordpress.com/)

Aliens threaten the entire Earth with apocalypse unless one specific person is surrendered. Write from that guy's perspective.

"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty." Oh, how sweet those words were. They could agree - they could *all* agree - that I was the sort of person who could have done it. They saw it on my face, in my eyes. They heard it in the character witnesses. I'd dare say they *felt* it. They could feel all they want but you can't convict a man on what you fuckin feel! No you can't. No siree. The feds had jumped at me with a handful of evidence and my lawyer, who is going to get a god damn raise, swatted it away. Circumstantial - he had argued. I don't know what that means, and I don't fuckin care! I'm a free man. And I can live. And I can party! Oh, how I'm gonna party. The cops are pissed, no man behind bars means no bonus I bet! Fuckin pigs. Fuck I want to party! I'm going to snort and smoke and drink and fuck! I'm gonna party! I might bring my razor with me again. Find a lil lady. I'll fuck and I'll party. They didn't catch me this time. Didn't even get me in court with the others. I'm gonna party.

You have been found "not guilty" of a crime you DID commit

I found a diary today. It was tucked into an old backpack that I hadn't seen for some time. I'm still not sure why I even bothered to look through that filthy pack. I had it for three years when I was living in homeless shelters and parks. When I was finally able to afford a house, the first thing I did was hide the backpack in my basement so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore. The diary still smelled like the filthy drifter I used to be. I almost threw it away but, for a reason I still can't understand, I couldn't put it down. My memories of the past are a little fuzzy. I know I sold some memories to pay for the house but I'm not sure exactly what I lost. That was always fine with me. I'm finally off the street and I can't miss what I don't remember. I scanned the pages of the diary and I was filled with disgust. Everything I wrote was so full of self-pity and mourning. Maybe if I hadn't wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself I wouldn't have been without a job for so long. Every few pages, I found a poem or lyrics to a song. They were all addressed to the same name: Claire. I didn't write this book to mourn my own poverty. I wrote it to mourn the loss of this woman. On the last page, I saw a few sentences. I had addressed them to myself. *"It has been three years, eight months, and six days since Claire died. Every one of these days has hurt just as bad as the day of the car wreck. If you have read the pages of this book then you understand how much her loss has pained me. Within a few months, depression put me out on the street. I filled dozens of books like these with poems and stories to try to flush out my pain into ink but it did nothing.* *"About two years ago, a man read one of these books. He told me he had searched his whole life for the type of love I had. He wanted my memories of her. He offered me food. When that wasn't enough he offered me a job. When that wasn't enough he offered me a house. For two years I refused, choosing to be homeless rather than to give her up. But I can't keep making this choice anymore. I envy the blissful ignorance you will live with. I considered writing the address of her grave in these pages but ~~you don't des~~ we don't deserve her."* Sometimes, when I climb into my cold, empty bed at night, I think of Claire. But I feel nothing. And it makes me sad.

Instead of trading money for everyday things, we trade memories.

"Good morning, Vietnam!" Professor Michael Scott roared. He smiled weakly, looking around the Great Hall. "Tough crowd, I see," he muttered. "Well, welcome to Hogwarts to those of you that are new. I am Professor Michael Scott, as most of you know. Kind of a celebrity around here. Anyway... B.O.B said 'I've got the magic in me,' and I agree. And I hope by the end of this year, I hope you will all have some of my magic in you." He paused for a second before adding, "That's what she said" with a smile. A spattering of applause came from the hall. He bowed awkwardly, his hat slipping a bit. "Thank you. Thank you so much. Now for the boring stuff, right? Uh... the 'Forbidden Forest' is off limits. Duh. No magic in the halls. Blah blah blah." "I just want to eat," Ron whispered to Harry. Harry nodded. Somehow he felt that dinner wouldn't be served for a while. -- A few weeks into the school, Hermione started up SPEW again. "Oh, no. Not this bullshit again," Ron said, seeing the pile of badges in Hermione's hand. "They NEED our help, Ron. They're overworked, they're not fed. They're slaves." He rolled his eyes, having heard this speech at least three times. "Anyway, I'm going to Prof. Scott to see if he can make badges for the entire school. You want to come with, Harry?" He looked around. "Oh, I've got... er..." Ron mouthed 'coursework'. "I've got loads of coursework. For Divination." Hermione glared at him and flounced off by herself. -- "What are they called?" Professor Scott asked again. "Er, house elves," Hermione said. "So are you going to--" "House elves," he repeated, chuckling. "Is that... like, a euphemism?" "What would that be a euphemism for?" His smile quivered a little. "You know, elves..." Hermione shook her head. "Well, count me in. In fact, I'll order the badges right now." He started writing a check on parchment. Hermione looked at it. "Who's bucktooth?" He looked up. "Pardon?" "It says there 'To Bucktooth.' Who's that?" He waved his hand. "It's just a name remembering exercise they taught me at my old business. Well, I taught them. I didn't learn anything there. I was like their mentor, you know." "Thanks," Hermione said, her brow furrowed. "No problem." --

Harry, Ron, and Hermione are returning for a new term at Hogwarts where they are greeted by the new Headmaster, Michael Scott.

"*Oh shit, not again.*" It's tough being the Devil's best friend, but someone's gotta do it. HEY POL As usual, he's perched on the end of my bed, hooves crossed, looking eagerly at me. "Listen, Luce..." DON'T CALL ME LUCE. IT'S SATAN. OR 'YOUR DARKNESS.' NOT LUCE. "Look Luce, it's the middle of the fucking night." I push the covers off and sit up, rubbing my eyes. "So, if you could fuck off, I'd appreciate that." If Satan is anything, he's predictable, and now he presented the Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist to me. The digital screen read, very clearly 6.66. "Very nice." YOU LIKE IT? "No." There's an awkward pause. I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY, Satan sniffs "Why Mickey, anyway?" I'M THE DEVIL, REMEMBER? "Of course. Yeah, sorry. Could you leave now?" WHY? I THOUGHT WE COULD GO TO VEGAS AGAIN. "Have you forgotten that they don't accept souls as bets?" Satan sniffed again. WHAT ABOUT DISNEY WORLD? "I've got a test tomorrow." The Devil visibly brightens up. SELL ME YOUR SOUL AND I'LL MAKE SURE YOU PASS IT. "For the last time, no, Luce. Not my soul. We're friends, remember?" SOME FRIEND WHO WON'T COME TO VEGAS WITH ME "Fuck off, Luce." I turn over in bed, away from the Devil. DON'T CALL ME LUCE "Goodnight, Satan." I say firmly AWH MAN, DON'T BLOW ME OFF, PLEASE. I make no response. He sighs and the clocks tick back to 2.06. I don't hear him leave. I don't get to sleep for some time.

You wake up in the middle of the night and looked at the time, the time was broken and read 6:66. You checked other clocks, all of the time read 6:66.

I think I had fun writing this... ---------------------------- It was still day. At least that hadn't changed. But everything else had. Around him, massive buildings leaped up toward the skiy, and the paintings that adorned them danced and moved and flickered. Sounds blasted from every direction, sometimes monotone blares like an animal's call, and others rhythmic with chaotic melodies sung by distressed barbarians. A dozen foreign tongues babbled inanities around him and young girls with loose hair and bright, form-fitting clothes were pointing to him with wide smiles. He set his jaw and reached for the hilt of his sword with his right hand, only to find it missing. Braving a moment to inspect himself, he found his clothes intact- a worn gray tunic under his leather cuirass and studded shoulder guards. His helmet was off, but he preferred himself without it and had found its weight a distraction during his last encounter with the Scots. But this was not Scotland and he felt suddenly wary of his head's vulnerability. Metal carriages roared past him on two sides and he jerked his head from side to side as he struggled to understand their paths. They followed impossibly smooth roads whose black surfaces were marked with words and letters he nearly understood. An arrow pointing away and the letters "O-N-L-Y." He turned suddenly as a brave group of young women called to him in strange words from barely out of arm's reach. Despite their untidy hair and bizarre clothes, he could see a certain beauty to the one of the three whose brown hair was streaked in gold. "Ave et que vale," he spoke, taking their wide smiles to mean they were harmless. The trio was thrown into a fit of giggles and Quintus was forced to take a wild step backwards as the nearest girl (the homely one with the short, upturned nose whose body was barely skin and bones) laid her hand on his shoulder and pushed lightly. He noticed now they each held a kind of rectangle in their hands. The girl with the gold hair held hers up and the eye that lay near the top of its pink surface turned to him. She spoke something with an inflection that he assumed was a question, but found he could only shake his head in response. But they failed to grasp his meaning, and the girl with the gold-streaks had her arm around the small of his back and pressed her hip into his thigh. Her companions raised their rectangles (one purple, and one white) and made noises with rhythm before they lowered them. The three then took steps back and moved their hands at him as they took their leave. Quintus stood in astonishment and set his eyes again to paintings that moved and sparkled across the walls.

A Roman solider is transported to the middle of New York City.

It was a waiting room. A big, wide waiting room with an infinite number of straight-backed grey chairs and a low table with a copy of *Cosmopolitan* from 2004. It was full, but silent. No-one was breathing - after all, there was no need to, not now they were dead. No-one spoke to each other, either. They were all dressed in identical grey suits, hands folded neatly in their lap, fingers clenched around each other so hard that the room was filled with an infinite number of white knuckles. I'd like to say that it was old age that took me, but it wasn't. When you're young, you imagine death to be something that will never happen to you. To other people, maybe, but not you in your safe little world. I took a seat next to a young woman with dark brown hair that tumbled over the Margaret Thatcher-like shoulder pads of the bulky grey suit she wore. She had an odd kind of expression on her face, and looking around, I realised it was the same for all of them. They strained forwards in their chairs, a desperate look of concentration twisting around the lines in their faces. "Hey, hey," I said quietly, leaning into her. For a moment the mask of concentration breaks and she whirls round to me. She is livid. "Hush! I'm listening!" Listening to what, I wonder, leaning back in my chair. It's not comfortable, but not uncomfortable either. It doesn't feel much like anything. Maybe that's what being dead is like. There are no physical signs on my body of how I died. Is physical the right word? Maybe I'm just a ghost, or something. A soul? I don't know. Then I hear it. "James," It comes loud and clear and I almost start out of my chair. I spin around, but it doesn't seem to be coming from anywhere. "If you can hear me, James..." I lean forward in my chair. Someone is talking to me. I try to stand up, but it's like I've been anchored down. "Hey! Someone help!" I cry out. "Someone help me, there's been a mistake!" But everyone in the room ignores me. They are too busy listening. Eventually I stop trying, but by then the voice is gone. I sit. I wait. The time ticks by slowly. "Yeah, James... God, I just miss him so much." It's my brother's voice. It's coming from somewhere, but I can't tell where, like his voice is seeping to me through the fog. This time I do not shout out. If I shout, I won't be able to hear him. "Tom, Tom, I'm so sorry." I whisper it, but his voice is already long gone. Time passes. The voices become fainter. I strain forwards to hear them. Always to hear them. I hear my mother, my brother, my father. I cry. Often, I cry. I didn't realise they had loved me this much. Why couldn't they have said this when I was alive? There's a gasp from beside me. The girl with the brown hair is crying, too. I do not console her. I only want to hear my family's voices again. She stands and leaves. I keep listening. The voices fade away. So do I. Edit: jesus, thanks for the gold. Still pissed, but i love you, whoever it was

Instead of life followed by death, there is a third form of existence which ends once everyone living forgets you

I woke up confused. The last thing I remembered was Mommy picking me up from school. I looked around the room, which was a pretty shade of blue. I didn't understand why I wasn't in my bedroom at home. I heard from somewhere above the bed "Dr. Shah please report to the C-ward, code green." I realized I must be at the hopspital. A nurse in light blue scrubs opened the door to my room, and her eyes got real big when they locked with mine. I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was a croak like a frog. I tried to lift my head to look for some water, but it felt heavy. I strained to raise my head even a little, and the nurse rushed over, saying "Don't move, just lie back and I'll get you something to drink, sir." I thought it was weird she called me sir, that was something people usually called Daddy. I looked down, and my feet looked really far away. I looked at my hands, but they didn't look like my hands. I started feeling really scared, but then nurse got back with my water. She asked me if I knew where I was while I sipped the water through a straw, and I nodded yes. I knew I was in the hopspital, so I must be sick. She looked surprised, and asked me if I knew what date it was. I shrugged my shoulders, I thought it was just after Christmas. Mommy had got me a real cool Tonka truck last Christmas. She set the water down as a doctor came in the room. He had really dark skin, it looked like the color of Cocoa Puffs. He looked even more surprised than the nurse did when he saw me looking at him. He said "Mr. Saunders, I have some very important things talk about with you. You were in a very serious car accident as a child. You have been in a coma for the past sixty years." I looked at him, not understanding what he meant. Sixty years? That's older than Grampa! As he explained though, things began to click: he strange looking hands, the longer legs. I made like I was writing something, and the doctor handed me a pen and paper. I tried to grab the pen, but ended up with a clumsy fist around it. I wrote in huge crooked letters "Mommy?" The doctor sighed and shared a look with the nurse. He gestured to the door and they went out into the hall together. I took the pen and started doodling, waiting for them to come back.

As a young child you were put in a coma after a terrible car accident that killed your family. You wake up 60 years later in a hospital and find yourself an old man.

He took a sip of his scotch. He was sitting at a small round table, his eyes closed in contemplation of the taste, and he took his time to do it properly. Time was, after all, the one thing he didn't lack. He put the glass back on the table near the bottle, and took a look at his wristwatch: seven fifteen and thirty four seconds. In ten seconds, the ship would collide with a wave big enough to feel it, and the old clock in the captain's cabin would fall down. He knew he would hear him curse the gods, and after a few moments hear him again, attempting to place the clock back on the wall. The sea used to make him sick. He would spend every moment at sea vomiting, or feeling like he was about to die in a terrible agony, only to vomit shortly after. That was, of course, no longer the case. These days he wished he could just die, he would take any kind of suffering to be released from this torture of boredom, from this repetitive routine that almost seemed like it was staged. Every move rehearsed to the point that no mistake would ever be made, and no matter what elements he would introduce, the outcome would in a way or another converge back to what was written in the script, however nonsensical it would seem. He once cut the throat of the captain right in front of the rest of the crew, while he was having his morning coffee with the sailors out on the deck, as he liked to. Their eyes stared at him with horror, someone jumped him from behind and restrained him, another one punched him and broke his arm to take the knife. They argued for a while about what to do with him, but in the end they decided that they would let the police deal with him once they reached the shore, in a little more than a day. They went back to their business, the part of the captain now played by his second in command, like nothing had changed. Another time he had cut his own throat and he felt as his life it went away, but the feeling of peace didn't last that much. He awoke shortly after, the cycle restarted, the day reset. It was pointless to look for a way out, he knew. The shore was but a day of sailing away, but after all these years he might as well have been living in a water world all along, a world where the shore was a lie told to the children in order to keep their hopes up and give some sort of meaning to their lives. He couldn't even remember what standing on solid ground felt like. Had it been ten years? No, much more. A hundred? He didn't know. He lost count after a while. It could have been a thousand years, a million years, it didn't make any difference. This was his own hell, and he had been living in it longer than he had lived before all this. Why was he on this ship? It had something to do with an inspection on the other side of the sea, but other than that, he couldn't recall. He had tried killing himself countless times, he had tried killing everyone countless times, in countless possible permutations, and nothing had ever changed. Not until he had tried to misplace the bottle of scotch. It was the one thing he never thought of doing, taking the bottle with him to his cabin and drink himself to death, or at least to sleep. He didn't know how much alcohol was required to kill a man, but he thought an entire bottle of 16 years old single malt would be enough to at the very least award his attempt with a coma. He was instead awarded with rain. He found himself crying, completely naked out on the deck, his hands hugging the sky and his throat hurting for the screams of joy. The rain was not in the script. It never happened before, it shouldn't have, but that morning, at 4am, it had begun to rain. After that he passed out, but the next night he tried again: he took the bottle of scotch to his room, and rain began to fall shortly after. He also noticed that the glass he took with him was still there the next day, but went back to its starting position the day after. He tried taking the clock from the captain's cabin, and he found it in his room the next morning. The bottle of scotch kept going back, but every time he took an object, it would not be completely filled. With the glass and the clock the difference was almost impossible to see, but when he took the jukebox, he saw a significant decrease in the level of scotch. He had decided that the bottle was somehow 'weighing' his offer to it. The more he offered to take outside of the loop, the more the level dropped. So he decided to offer another person, and took the captain back to his room. He didn't think things through, and things got out of hand when he wouldn't let him leave, so he had to put a knife through his eye to let him stay. His body, at least. The crew was very confused when the captain didn't show up the *'next'* morning, but the captain got his life back the day after, and the bottle had seemed to appreciate the offer, as only a couple of inches of scotch had remained. That was what a life was worth in this distorted, surreal play that was his own hell. That was what he needed to offer back to the bottle to be able to escape, or at least that was what he thought would happen. If another life was to take his place while he took his own, maybe he would be free. Maybe he would finally be dead. The tricky thing was to have it all happen in his room, without the other one leaving. "Damn the gods to hell, I hate this floating piece of shit!". Right on time, without fail. The captain was the perfect specimen for this little experiment of his. The excitement he felt, it was an alien feeling, something he had long forgotten. He knew how to make things work. He went up to the captain's quarters and knocked on the door. The man, who was frustratingly trying to put the clock back on the wall at that point, left his task to open the door and ask him what in the seven hells did he want, and why instead of bothering him didn't he go to fuck himself off on the bloody deck. A smile crept on his face, and he almost chuckled. He took his knife and stabbed the captain in the gut, then twisted enough to see his expression of angered surprise turn to an expression of pain, and feel him go numb in his arms. He wasn't dead, good. He had practiced this long enough to know how to make him lose consciousness and not bleed out. He needed to have him last at least another twelve hours, but he was sure he got things right this time. He wrapped the captain in a blanket and carried him back to his room, putting him on the bed. He would come to soon enough, and he would have to sedate him to keep his metabolism slow. He had already cauterized the wound and patched it up, so he shouldn't be bleeding out. Ten hours left. He poured himself another glass, drinking to the captain's honour. The man was delirious, probably feverish, but alive. Five hours. Someone was yelling, looking for him, but no one suspected he could be here. Three hours. He was very pale, too pale, and a sudden movement of the ship almost woke him up. The rain was incredibly strong, it had become a storm. One hour. This was it, he could hear thunder roaring and the ship was dancing the dance of death with the ocean, like the universe was being torn apart and they were running away from the quickly opening rip. Thirty minutes. It was time, the cycle would soon start again and he would not be here for it to suck him in again. He took the knife to his chest, and plunged it in. That, he had practiced many times as well. As life was leaving him, he heard thunders like he never heard before in his life, and saw lighting bolts so powerful he thought they would be tearing the sea itself in two. Suddenly, peace set in. Light. He heard bells ringing, and felt the ship stopping. The engines shut down. They had reached the shore. He opened his eyes and smiled, while a single tear came down his cheek. His hands then touched the knife deeply plunged in his chest, and he exhaled his last breath. At least, at last he was free. *** Wow, this came out longer than I expected... EDIT: Not being a native english speaker, I have difficulty deciding if I completely fucked up the verb tenses. Too many 'had's, or too little?

Somebody long-since trapped in a time loop learns the only way to break the cycle is to condemn another person to their own time loop.

Matthew Smith looked intently at the man who was half buried in an eviscerated panel on the outer wall of the structure. "What've you got there Jimmy?" "Almost there, battery tapped in, just tracing the control lines to clip onto aaaannnnddd.... OPEN!" Matthew looked up expectantly at the door. It didn't open. "It didn't work." "Huh... Well let me try this one." This time the door shuddered. Then with a creak and a groan of strained metal, the doors cracked open in the middle. They shuddered back a few inches, and then with the scream of rust-on-rust, slammed back into the recesses of the wall. Matthew was an archaeologist. And along with a few members of a specialist team, he was attempting to make his way into a structure that had been uncovered in a mine in southern USA. The tomb of the rocket-men as it was popularly called. An artificial structure almost one thousand meters long, by seven hundred wide, it had been discovered month when a shaft collapse had necessitated a new borehole be dug. The first thing seen when the door cracked open was a body lying on the floor. Well, more specifically, it was a skeleton, collapsing and settling in a cloud of crumbling bone-dust, having been disturbed from it's position of leaning on the doorway. "Leena, document." Matthew commanded, almost necessarily as a wiry looking young woman with a camera dashed forwards. Videoing she took a few cautions steps around the bones. "Very damaged. What remains: Possibly human? At least, very similar architecture. Not enough remaining to make a positive identification, movement will cause further disintegration." "Take a sample, but we move on and in. " Leena nodded, and using a few small tools, took a couple of scrapings and powder samples and placed them into some specimen jars. Michael flicked on his head torch, and being careful to step over what was left of the skeleton, proceeded to lead his team into the depths of the tomb. What was ahead of them, a short corridor, leading up to a junction. Almost eerie in it's silence, except from the shallow, excited breaths of five people and the ringing sounds of their footsteps on metal. Three ways to go, one with a staircase at the end of it, although it was difficult to make out the direction in which it went from where they were. Matthew peered down all of them, as did the rest of his team. "Which way?" Katy was the first one out with it. Gesturing to the corridor of his choice, Jimmy stepped to the left hand tunnel. "Well, if the imaging is correct, we came in on the left hand side of this thing. If they're like us, then I say we turn left, head for the front. At least, that's where I think this should take us." "I disagree. Let's take those stairs and head for the top. That's where I'd put the control room." Katy responded, giving Jimmy *that* look. The one that Matthew knew was going to set both of them off and very shortly devolve into an argument. But before he could step in and head it off, Tom, the final member of their little troupe, started jabbering excitedly and demanding they all come and look at what he had found. Unnoticed by Matthew, Thomas had been scraping away at the grime on one of the walls, and had uncovered something. "Holy hell. Please tell me I'm seeing this." Katy stepped forward and whispered almost reverentially "That's English lettering - E A L I U R - not comlpete obviously - rest of the lettering is too faded to make out in this light. Dammit, if only I had more light." What happened next scared the whole team witless for just a second. Starting with a deep, clunk and a slowly rising hum, the light block directly above them burst into light, and with a series of clicks cascade out to ignited the rest of the lights in the immediate sector, until everything that was in the immediate vicinity was bathed in an even white light. Katy, looking all around herself, and with only a slight tremble in her voice began to talk rather rapidly, her impending conflict with Jimmy forgotten for the moment. "Ooookay then. Spookiness. Grade A Capital S Spookiness. Is anyone else freaked out right now?" Tom ran his fingers over the lettering on the wall, before using a small brush to scrub away the rest of the grime. "*Excalibur*" he whispered softly. "A name?" he continued, his voice more confident. "I think this is the name of this facility, whatever it is. Leena and Matthew looked at each other. "Human. Definatley Human." came from Leena's mouth. "Seems like it. English writing on the wall. Apparent response to voice commands. Upwards. We go up, let's reach the top of the structure and then head forwards." Decision made, the group gathered closer to themselves whatever tools they had and walked the chosen path. ------- Being that it's half one where I am, I will continue this in the morning. ------- Continuing from here ------- The staircase took them up three floors before it became impassable. Some sort of damage had deformed the stairwell above them, making passing it impossible without the liberal application of acetylene torches and heavy lifting equipment. Now, they had a small cutting torch, but ultimately, the decision was made to attempt to find a way around the blockade. Thomas, using a stick of chalk, made a marking on the wall to indicate the direction they were taking, and then sketched a map into a tablet computer he was carrying. His attention taken away, he didn't notice that the others had dropped behind, involved in their own discussion until he nearly stepped on another corpse. He whistled back for the others to come up. This one, Matthew noted, was for a given value of such, more intact than the body down by the entrance. This one, instead of being just a skeleton, still had mummified flesh on it's bones. However, almost none of the bones were intact - some violent trauma had happened to the body - Leena crouched down next to the body and carefully started to examine it, talking more to her camera than the rest of them. "Body. Male. Unknown time how long it's been here. Must be some sort of environmental factor to not show the same decay as the skeleton downstairs. Skull is caved in, all major limbs show multiple breaks, limbs heavily distorted. Cause of death is unknown, but I would hazard a guess it was the skull that did it. Certainly you would be unlikely to recover from that." Panning the camera up and side to side, Leena nodded when she found a bloodspatter on the wall. "Bloodsplatter looks consistent with the skull wound - someone or something caused this man's head to collide violently with the wall. I wonder what happened here?" The whole team looked around as another hum started to rise in the vicinity of them. This time, they all jumped to the side when something appeared in the middle of them. A model of a room, with two people in it. Their images fuzzy and blurred. Then from apparently nowhere, voices started, and the image began to move. The two people seemed to be arguing about something. "... gotta fix... no, you .... I ... to... failing... I can fix... your permission." were the only words that could be made out before one of the figures dashed out of the room. A moment later, Tom gave a scream when a man appeared at the end of the corridor at a run. Again, fuzzy, blurred. He belted it down the corridor, past the team, and down the stairs they had just come up. Just before he disappeared out of sight, there was a pause, a flicker and suddenly he was running in the opposite direction, when something unseen flung the man from his feet. Head collided with the wall, precisely where the bloodstain was, and his now limp body was flung violently around the corridor for a few seconds more, before the hologram folded the body into the same positioning that the real body was in now. The last thing to be shown was a set of words in the middle of the corridor: "Excalibur Internal Security recording terminated. Query answered." Matthew blinked a few times. "Leena, please tell me you got that?" Thomas breathed a sigh. "Full holographic technology, and what is at the least an incredibly intelligent voice recognition/command system. Imagine the applications! Imagine what could be done!" Thomas grabbed Matthew by the front of his shirt. "I have to have it!" Matthew calmly pried Thomas's hands off of him. "All in due time. Let's not get too excited here Thomas. First, let's get to the bridge." To the corridor at large, he spoke out. "Excalibur. Indicate the shortest unobstructed route to your primary command center." There was a minute pause, and then some words formed in the center of the room. "Regret: Captain, Primary command systems unavailable. Significant damage to superstructure. Report: Secondary command systems, Engineering deck. Pathfind?" "Did this thing just call you Captain?" Jimmy inquired of Matthew. Matthew made a gesture to silence him before speaking again. "Excalibur, confirm. Pathfind to secondary command systems. " A series of blue lights along one side of the wall lit up, starting at their position and leading back the way they came. ------- Part three to come tomorrow.

A research team finds a tomb containing the corpses and technology of a long extinct culture of super-advanced humans, and they discover clues as how they reached their fate, and why nobody has found them yet.

That night, as storm clouds gathered in the darkened skies above Washington, he spoke to a full house of reporters and lobbyists. "And if we can all work together in a show of bipartisan support, I am confident that we can accomplish anything, folks." As the audience applauded, President Obama smiled and waved as he headed off the stage. Reporters flashed cameras and shouted questions behind him. "What do you think about Chris Christie's Bridge-ghazi scandal!?" "When can we expect full economic recovery!?" "What about education, Mr. president!?" But, as anyone finishing a press conference does, Barack simply smiled at friends or fans and continued making his way backstage -until Wendy Walters asked her question. "Is it true you're from the planet Berengaria Prime!!?" It wasn't her question, or her squeaky voice, or even how she rose on tip-toes to try and be seen above a crowd of people all of whom were taller than she was that silenced the cacaphony of reporters' questions. It was the fact that the President stopped and turned on his heel. He smiled broadly and took a step closer to the media, putting a hand warmly on Wendy's shoulder. "Actually, there are days when I'm convinced that my opponents in congress are from Mars." He thought better of saying, "Uranus." The group of reporters chuckled and clicked thousands of photographs of the president smiling with his hand on Wendy's shoulder. One reporter decided it would make for a cute human interest piece. Another wanted it for the UFO section of his outlet's website. And yet another was certain, as he watched the president whisper quietly in the blonde reporter's ear, that it would some day be proof of an affair. "One day," the reporter said to his assistant, watching secret service seal off the exit after Obama and Walters were out of sight, "this picture's gonna be worth millions. Mark my words. I've never seen him take a reporter backstage before. Those two? They're totally doin' it." In the corridor, burly secret service agents walked behind and in front of the President as he smiled at Wendy. "Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Miss Walters." Obama grinned broadly, one hand in his pocket, walking with purpose through the long corridor. "I- I want to say thank you for wanting to give me an exclusive interview but somehow I'm sure that's not what you really want." Wendy tried to look tough but somehow failed. "Because you think I'm from another planet. What did you call it, Bulgaria Prime?" His eyes glinted at her with bemusement. "Berengaria Prime, and you know exactly what it's called." She had to speed up a bit to keep alongside him. "We've been watching, Mr. Obama -or whatever your real name is -and we know all about it." "Who's 'we?' Last I heard, you got your white house press pass because you worked for a major network. Are you telling me FOX news is now tracking alien conspiracies? Not that I'd totally disbelieve it..." Obama managed to be condescending in a really friendly way. It unnerved her. "I'm not working for FOX anymore. And who I represent doesn't want to go public ...yet. But we do know and the planet earth is not without recourse." Obama and the secret service led Wendy into the Oval Office. The agents did not remain in the room but, as they closed the doors, Wendy was certain they'd be waiting just outside. Barack sat down at his desk and gestured to a chair. Wendy chose to stand. "Well, have it your way. Look, Miss Walters, I can assure you that I am not from another planet. If this is about my birth certificate, I still have a copy in my desk dr-" "I'll get to the point," Wendy cut him off, something to which the president was unaccustomed, and furrowed his brow in a rare flash of annoyance. "We not only know about your home planet but we also have one of your operatives in ...custody." The president did not reply. He merely sat back in his chair and listened. "A 'reptilian,' or as you call yourselves, a 'Dra'a Venoor,' who has identified himself as Roagha, has told us a great deal." She squared her shoulders and stood at as ready a stance as she could muster, prepared to confront him once and for all. "We know about 'Operation Underpants.'" Obama looked down at the paperwork covering his desk and chuckled. "Operation *Underpants*, Miss Walters?" "He said you selected a ridiculous name so no one would believe it." "And he's right. Even I don't believe it. But it seems you do. Why?" He looked at her with concern, as if wondering if she needed some serious therapy. "Because we have *seen* him. Yes, we managed to force your operative to revert to his true form. And we heard him talk. We *made* him talk." Her eyes narrowed. "He told us everything we wanted to know." Barack stood up and Wendy instinctively took a step backward. "Look, I don't believe any of this and I'm frankly shocked that you seem to. Someone has apparently gone to a lot of trouble to deceive you or, quite honestly, you are either lying or insane." "NO! I saw it with my *own* eyes. I saw his skin transform right in front of me, going from a smooth, human complexion to a scaly, green skin." "Miss Walters..." Obama looked at her like she was a pathetic figure worthy of some pity and reached out to put his hand on her shoulder." "I saw his blood when I slit his throat." She spat the words out like poison. FLASH! Obama's hand was around her throat and she was pushed backwards to teeter on her high heels -but his iron grip held her firmly as his green scaled face pushed uncomfortably close to hers. "He wassss my brood-mate!" His nictitating membranes blinked across his yellow, slit-pupiled eyes. "My elder sssibling, blood of my blood!" His voice was deep and strained. "You will pay for thissss." She tried to swallow but couldn't move her throat. She barely managed a hoarse reply. "We have.... another." He let go, shoving her back violently. She fell onto her backside, one black pump flying off her foot and sailing into the wall. She grasped at her throat, wheezing and coughing. "We'll kill....*gasp* ...him too. If anything *cough* happens to me." "Who isss it you think you have?!" Standing beside his chair, Obama bent slightly forward placing his hands on the desk. She never saw him depress the small green button underneath... "Her name is Da'davri." Wendy got to her feet and straightened her now-rumpled red dress as she moved to retrieve her shoe. "I know you know her." Shoe slipped onto foot and foot joined its companion, standing heroically as arms bent akimbo. "She's one of your 5 wives." "You keep your stinking paws off her, you damned dirty ape!" "She's unharmed. For now." "What do you want," Obama asked flatly -ever the politician. "To bring you a message. The people of Earth know you're here, and we won't stand for it. We know you plan to take and consume the bulk of the human population and we will stop you." Obama shook his head and the reptilian features melted into the familiar face of the president. He smiled his trademark smile. "No, Miss Walters. No, you won't. You can't. You see, we haven't just arrived. We've been here since the dawn of your civilization. We *made* you. Imhotep? He was one of us. Caesar? He was my grandfather. We're far longer lived than the pitiable apes we genetically enhanced to be our servants. And we are patient. Very patient. "There are more of us here than you can count and we are *everywhere*, at all levels of power and governance around the world. Except Canada. Anyway, we have programmed you to collect gold and precious metals and gems for us and you have done so very well at it. We instituted various social experiments to find the proper form of government that would keep you productive and obedient. Frankly, they all worked just fine. In every case you happily fell upon each other like wolves for every scrap of food or money. Even in America, where you think you're *free*, you bristle at the notion that someone might not work enough for their masters... for us, ultimately. I'd like to say we're brilliant, and we are, but frankly, my dear," he smiled at her. "You apes are just so stupid." "Yeah? Well we "stupid apes" sussed you out. And now, we're going to rid the world of you once and for all. As we speak, one of our top operatives has a nuke aimed at your mothership. Yes, we know where it is. Only an idiot thinks we really landed on the moon to collect rocks." Suddenly, the door opened and a secret service agent closed it again after a burly, ruddy-faced man in a blue suit entered. "You buzzed for me, Mr President?" "R-Ronald," She stammered. "Hello, Wendy," he said softly, his freckled skin turning green and glistening.

Obama actually turns out to be a Reptilian.

Truman Washington was a beginning of the end, a decisive instrument of history. A Julius, a Napoleon, a Cromwell. The Ethiopian-born genius who had turned on the land that raised him, a poor immigrant who had torn a blood-splattered path to riches, and then to power. The man who had twisted the poor Constitution until it could bear no more, until the Republic crumbled. President at 35 while keeping his old CEO position at Lockheed Martin-JP Morgan. He had bought the Supreme Court and Congress with his uncountable billions, and lavishly spent on private armies. Legal, since corporations were people, who had the right to self defense. The Joint Chiefs were unwilling to intervene as no laws had been broken. The fact that the corporations were rather more powerful was just proof of the fact that more money is more speech. Nearly 8000 had been massacred in New York, and Chicago had become a war zone, but even a public in full revolt couldn't besiege the well-cushioned rich, who could take any amount of plebeian protest without the need to capitulate. It was not that his system failed, really, it was that it had succeeded. He had been the richest, and then he hadn't. Another maniac with more money now wanted to crush the world between his hands. They had usurped his throne, made him penniless, and imprisoned him for crimes against the Republic. Alcatraz for God's sake. Now they were taking his life. Treason. One charge for one criminal. One day to live, and the result of final appeal, a phone call from the Supreme Court, was coming any second. A guard walked in with the phone, "Your free to go", came the familiar, mocking tone, with its deep Asiatic accent. A loud beep as the line went dead, Truman was left with his face gray, stunned for a moment. The guards walked in and grabbed his prison-issue shirt, stained red to indicate that he was a high value inmate. They dragged him bodily out of the room, with a bit of hatred laced into their tugs. High value inmate. Only because of historical interest. He was no more, stripped of everything during the Downfall. Life in the common world would be torture, he would be a pariah to the common classes. The door out of the prison doors approached. The hinged creaked loudly and sunlight streamed in, blinding him. He smelled the sea and heard a dull roar, either the mob or the brutally cold surf rocking the shores in the blustery wind. The line of people was dense, 30 people deep on every side. The guard next to him laughed and bent over, leaning close to Truman's ear even as he dragged him, "I'm just one of the lower ones, the poor that you so disenfranchised. I have only a bitter pleasure at seeing you die, as it just marks the coming of the next emperor. One day we will rebuild what you destroyed. Sic semper tyrannis." The guard drew away and pushed Truman Washington into the crowd. The crowd threw his body into the sea.

A man is about to be executed when he receives a last minute pardon. The people there decide to execute him anyway...

> Be me at 8 years old > Watch the 10-hour Nyan cat video on Youtube every day, doing absolutely nothing else > Prays to Nyan cat every night before sleeping, looking up at the sky to await the prophecy > "Nyan Cat is love. Nyan Cat is life," I repeat ritualistically > My mom hears me and calls me a "bundle of sticks" > She is just jealous of the bond between me and Nyan Cat > I call her a "female dog" > She slaps me and tells me to do my homework > I am crying now and forgot to eat Pop Tarts for dinner > I lay in bed looking out the window > Suddenly the clouds part > A giant rectangular object is blocking out the full moon > The 20,000 year prophecy is coming true > It's Nyan Cat > Mom comes into my room and asks what the answer to my math homework is > Nyan Cat rumbles from the heavens > "It's over nyan thousand" > I am smiling now with tears of joy instead of pain > Nyan Cat crashes into the Earth > People are dying > Nyan Cat appears in my room > Sings "Nyanyanyanyan" and saws my mother's body in half > Blood is everywhere > "That is strawberry filling" Nyan Cat says > Then Nyan Cat approaches me > My body is ready > I roll over on my stomach > Nyan Cat mounts me and starts purring > My dreams are coming true > Jelly filling flows up my butthole > Best thing ever felt anywhere of all time > "Nyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyan," Nyan Cat says then flies out the window > Flies back into the sky and disappears for another 20,000 years > Nyan Cat is love. Nyan Cat is life.

You are awaiting a celestial event that only occurs every 20,000 years. The Nyan Cat is nearing its closest aproach to the planet and it can be seen from earth.

Have you ever woken up and been unable to move? In most cases, it's called sleep paralysis. In my case, it was called bad luck. The day before, I woke up at 6:50 AM, considered killing the spider on my dark green ceiling, and made some coffee. On the day of The Event, however, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, located in an unfamiliar room, hooked up to an unfamiliar machine making unfamiliar noise. I assumed it was a dream at first. Who wouldn't? I had to just wait it out and then wake up. A confused woman in a nursing outfit started suddenly in the corner. "Ambapo Mimi ni nani?! Nani kutomba ni wewe?!" she shouted. I tried to respond, to get up and ask her about what was going on, but I found myself trapped within my own body. Panic set in. The odd beeps from the machine beside me accelerated. And then I realized: I was paraplegic. The nurse ran out of the room, and I wished I could follow her. Instead, I was left alone with nothing but the steady beeping of my own heart. This was two weeks ago. for two weeks I've been alone, staring blankly at a wall. For two weeks I heard nothing but faint shouts and the incessant beeping noise. The worst part, however, is the hunger. It's a hungry beast, violently clawing its way to the surface. I don't know how much longer I can last, but I pray it isn't long.

Everybody in the world switches bodies with a random person.

"Hey. Yeah, I know we never talk and all. When we do its all pregnant pauses and crickets. Which is mostly my fault, I mean, I live with my eyes shut. Just sitting there, writing a million little stories of you and me. None of them are...this. You're not the one that is stuck with me, I am. I am stuck and you are not helping in the slightest. But, hey, you tried and that's admiral, I guess, but not enough. Sorry, so sorry, that's not what I called you up to talk about. I know its hard, having to deal with som-someone like me. It might be unrequited but I love you. I feel like I was genetically predispositioned for that, you shaking me off won't work. I know that I am no where as good enough as you deserve and you'll probably just delete this before you start the message. I mean, what dumbass uses private caller anymore? Just me. Its the only way I've got the balls to do it. Calling in to tell you hi and that I miss you and that I love you and I'm sorry. [*Pause*] Say hi to Kevin for me, yeah. Okay, yeah, bye, Mom."

The Most Awkward Love Confession You Can Think Of

A square-jawed and handsome man who was in his forties, but looked like he was in his late thirties, appeared on the television screen. It was Brian MacAvoy of *American Eagle News.* "Welcome back. As I mentioned before the break, a new drug has hit the streets that can, quote, make people more sexually provocative and permissible, unquote. "On my right, we have Dr. Laura Goodman, a noted women's issues professor from Stanford University, as well as the Chairperson of Women's Alliance Movement or WAM. She says that this drug is a boon for society, because it will help to reverse our aging society problem, but is concerned that it could be used to take advantage of women into unwanted sexual encounters. "And on my left is Governor John Perry of Virginia, likely contender for the Republican Party's nominee for president. He says that he thinks that this drug is quote, a symbol of our crumbling morals, unquote, and suggests that women who take this drug are again, quote, asking for it, unquote, and that therefore the country's laws regarding sexual harassment and rape ought to be reviewed. "Dr. Goodman, let's start with you," continued MacAvoy. I switched off the TV. I didn't want to hear it anymore. It's been on TV for months since the drug hit the market and I was tired of it. It was so damned stupid. No one made a fuss when those boner pills were first introduced. No one batted an eye. In fact, those commercials were just so subtle and coy that it was oftentimes impossible to know just what the hell was being advertised until they mentioned the brand's name. But now that this drug can be taken by both men and women, now it's a big deal. God forbid that women can make our own choices in regards to our bodies. Perry and all those Evangelical Christians, many who picketed outside the stores that sold this drug called us sluts and whores. They even taught their children to spit at us. This was expected. They've always been that way. But Goodman and all those other feminists were annoying, too, treating us like as though we were part of a societal solution or helpless people who needed their omniscient and benign protection. None of these talking heads ever took the time to consider that we might be just individuals. Yes, I like sex. Is that so crazy? For a woman to admit that she likes sex? How the hell did people think that the birds and the bees do it? No, I don't need the drug. I'm already in a loving relationship and my boyfriend and I get along just fine. But every once in a while, when the sex gets a bit boring, we don't mind using outside help. I've used porn, vibrators, and other toys before. Why not this new drug? Yes, when taken irresponsibly, bad things can happen. Yes, people can sometimes abuse this new drug. But what else is new? Have none of these loudmouths ever heard of *personal responsibility*? I'm not a slut who is asking for it. I'm not a helpless damsel in distress who needs to be rescued by WAM. I'm not some kind of baby producing machine that will solve the country's aging problem. I am me, and I like to use this drug in moderation for my own personal enjoyment. Why is that such a big deal? I was muttering and fuming under my breath as I stared at the dull reflection of myself on the TV's screen when I heard my boyfriend's voice. "Hey, honey. I'm going to the store to pick up a few things. And I was thinking of picking up you-know-what for tonight. Do you want me to pick up the same one from the last time?" asked Troy. "No," I replied. "I didn't really like that one." "Yeah, it did taste a little harsh, didn't it?" "But there's this one that I want to try. I think it might taste a bit better. It's supposed to taste like lemonade." "Alright, I'll pick it up. What's it called?" "Mike's Hard Lemonade," I replied.

There is a drug that can be taken that makes people more sexually provocative and permissible. The current media debate is whether women taking this drug have grounds to claim rape.

(I'm getting vibes of The Tempest) *Edit: Moved it all to one comment* When I awoke, I felt nothing but pain. As I lay on the shore, my skin felt like it was burning. Hot, so hot. I opened my eyes, and closed them. I tried to lift myself up, but my hands were burning from the heat of the sand as it touched it. It was like every pebble was a tiny stove. I opened my eyes again and took a look at my injuries. Nothing too broken, but I had lacerations and bruises all over. My clothes were torn, and I couldn't find my master anywhere. Perhaps he had perished in the storm? I ripped the hem of my dress and wrapped it around my feet. I didn't care about modesty, and it didn't seem like there was anyone present on the desolate whitish yellow shore. I seemed to have kept most of my maid's outfit, which was all I had except for... I hope I still had… I felt my neck. Yes, I still had the token my love had given me. It was a little wooden bird around a leather string. He had bought it for me from the marketplace as a parting gift, he felt the flying bird matched my own restlessness. I held onto it tightly for comfort, took a deep breath, and trudged forward. The island was solid rock, and hurt to walk over. Not much grew on the island, except for the occasional patches of land. I needed to look for water. I walked further inland, and soon enough, there were animals, plants, and insects. Much to my surprise, there were trenches dug up to allow for fertile land to be transplanted on the island, or else there wouldn't be life. There must be people here! Was that good or bad? Would they be friendly or dangerous? I suppose nothing is worse than being a handmaid to the Duke of Milan. I suppose it was divine justice. I had always wanted to travel, see the world. I volunteered to go on this trip with my lord to the Duke of Sicily, it's only fair I'm going to get eaten by savages along the way. Hungry, I look for food. There is a grove of trees ripe with fruit, strange ones I've never seen before. Large green ovals that blush red, yellow ones that look like hedgehogs on their heads, hairy brown ones. I stick with the green oval. The skin is bitter, but the orange inside is sweet and tart and unfamiliar to me as the juice flows down my face, filling me with relief. I eat another, and another. As I'm finishing my last one, I feel the tree shake. In surprise, I look down and see three men trying to shake me off the tree. Terrified, I climb down. This is it. They ask me to follow them, and we walk for what seems like miles to a little village. It is small, primitive. As we move into the outskirts, I see buildings decorated in gold, shining in splendor, but absolutely filthy. There's excrement lining the streets, women washing their glittering clothes and gold chains make their necks barely visible. Children can barely move in their heavy garments as they throw rocks of gold on the streets in some sort of gambling game. This must be the wealthy part of the, but why are we moving away? As we walk towards the center, the streets become neater, wider. There are flowers along the roadside, and trees. The buildings are beginning to have wooden beams, and further in the houses are made entirely of wood. The people walking past us wear various types of clothing, mostly gold cloth, but some are dressed plainly in high quality linen and wool. At last, I reach the largest wooden building. The men enter with me, and there is someone guarding the door. As we enter the chamber, there is a group of men and women in the wooden hall. They are dressed in robes, like everyone else. But, they are all wearing a fabric I had only seen once before, cotton. The cotton I had seen was rough and harsh to the skin. Yet, this looks so soft and smooth, someone must have painstakingly taken out all the seeds from each fibre. There was a man sitting on a chair in the room, while everyone else stood. He tries to speak to me, but it comes out like a song I can't understand. Kind and musical, but confused. I try to explain my circumstances, apologize for stealing, beg for my life. But, the man looks at the wooden trinket around my neck. He points to it, and motions for me to give it to him. Confused, I unwrap the leather string around my neck and hand it to him. He admires the cheap thing, valuable only in sentiment, and smiles. He gives it back to me, and I'm escorted by a group of women to be bathed and clothed. They are all so beautiful and kind. I wonder if I am the only survivor, but it isn't until my meal that I see I am not. I hear a familiar clinking and the heavy footsteps, but a tray piled with food is covering his face. He's having a hard time carrying it. Finally, with a wheeze and a sigh, he sets in on the table. I can't believe it. He is still wearing his silk and brocade, and still has held onto his jewelry. Granted, his once immaculate and haughty appearance has become tattered and mangy, but it's still him. It's my master, the Duke himself! "My lord," I gasp. He looks pale as he opens the tray of roasted meat, vegetables unfamiliar to me, and lined with flowers. I am sitting with the other women, who I assume are noble in a small table while the men sit in the large dining room. The servers are all covered in gold and wearing golden chains.He stares at the floor as he takes out the wooden spoon and with great effort, scoops the food onto my plate. He is so weak, so tired. When he accidentally drops some vegetables on the floor, he is smacked by one of my fellow dinner guests who shout at him. Livid, he picks it back up, and puts it on my plate.At this insult, the guards are up in arms. They grab him and hold him in place while they put him at my feet, looking to me to see what to do. "In their land, the person of higher rank gets to decide a proper course of punishment if someone commits an offense towards them," growled my former master. "I don't understand. Let go of him," I ask the guards, who nod and throw him to the ground. I hear a thud as his head hits the floor. With dignity, he crawls back up to address me, despite his apparent pain. "I would request something relatively painless, they have some sharp blades here, perhaps decapitation?" He continues as he spits out blood from his mouth. "This is ridiculous, my lord. What is going on?" "I can't bear this indignity! I've been prodded, poked, and forced to work for these savages. It is a disgrace for me to continue living, especially if it means serving you. Have you met your fellow servants yet? They're in the Royal Banquet Hall," he sneers. "They were given the same choice, and all of them have murdered their masters and taken their place in this topsy-turvy land! I only expect you to do the same." With that, he spits at my feet. "You are injured, we should take care of that, and then get you some new clothes. Have you eaten yet?" He doesn't say anything at first. "Yes, I had some bread earlier." "Sit with me, this is more food than I am used to. Take some water, you look parched." I can't understand much of the language, but I enjoy the company of these people. They laugh more than I'm used to, and are very generous. From the way they treat me, they assume I am a fellow noble and of use for future trade. Most of the night I have been playing charades with them, trying to communicate in hand gestures as we want to find out more about each other. So far, I've learned a few words, like "water," and "yes," but I have a long way to go. They don't seem to approve of my leniency with the Duke, but take it as a cultural barrier, accepting me as the impostor I am. Tonight I have my own chambers, and a large bed to sleep on. I've never felt sheets this soft before, it's like I am sleeping on a cloud. As I drift onto what feels like a feather bed, I think about what will happen to me, and how will I make myself useful to these people now that I'm sitting at the table It's been three months. I can't say I've mastered the language, but I've become proficient. I've been very busy lately. Who knew court life was so hectic, no matter the culture? They have an odd way of viewing life here, the Antillians. They worship many gods, none I have heard of, but I appreciate their devotion. Every morning, we wake up and greet the dawn. Then, we go to the temple of the Land Goddess and offer incense and chants. After a communal bath (I'm still not used to that!), we go to Court and give our regards to the king, Malo, who opens up the public forum for debate of the new laws. I'm surprised the king is not telling them what to do, since it is his Divine Right, but it is his decision. The women have equal say as the men. Have you ever heard of such a thing? They are even helping to make laws! I've even sat in a few meetings. Although I am not eloquent, I have made my history of my former life known, and yet they still respect me. We have been working on ways to store food to prevent famine and try to alleviate the stigma of poverty on the island. There are more villages too, but I was lucky to have entered the capitol my first day. On the island, poverty is a curse. A self-inflicted on from the Land Goddess. Since the ground is not fertile, the only way to get food is to either import it, which is difficult and expensive, or to terraform the land and bring in fertile soil and grow crops. Food is a vital commodity, building materials are vital. Wood is the most precious resource with all of its applications. People have died trying to get enough wood to build boats, or even find kindling for fire. The only thing that is plentiful on the island is gold. So much so that the words "gold," and "evil" are the same. Their analogue to the Devil is a golden idol, and while he is kept polished and shining. The statue is struck by lighting quite often, apparently lighting based accidents are common on the island, especially towards the poor, which doesn't help the image. I've been trying to convince the king to export the gold, trade it for needed resources, but he seems reluctant. Although it could help bring prosperity to the island, instead of the teetering existence of hand and mouth most people live on, he tells me that it would lead to disaster. Other islands would want the evil, not knowing it is cursed. It is only in the past few generations the inhabitants even realized their worthless land was valuable to other people. So far, they've allowed a little bit to leave for trading, and that has helped feed and clothe the island, but only nobles can exchange it, and only with direct permission from the king. Those who are caught embezzling face a violent and ritualistic death for bringing shame to the island. After my morning debating, I have lunch with my colleagues. I have been wanting to go back to my land for a while, but the king does not want to part with a boat that will never return. I might die here. I do not know if I'm willing to be resigned to that fact. The people treat me well, and I've become more than a novelty. Lately, Malo's second in command, Roillo, has been lunching with me. He seems pleasant and patient, and from what the nobles tell me, he is handsome by their standards. I do not know if I should accept any advances from him. He disagrees with my need to change the old ways, especially since I am an outsider. A few of the nobles have expressed their dislike towards me, especially the king's daughter, Geum, who has threatened to weigh me with gold and throw me into the sea. Riollo has promised me protection after the king's death in exchange for becoming one of his lesser wives, but he still will not help me leave. The only person I've seemed to be able to voice these concerns to Filippo. It is odd not to consider him as my master anymore, but he is also not my servant. I made him give up his jewels, much to his chagrin, but now he is not considered a slave by my peers. He's become my advisor, since he has had political experience. He's taught me much too, we talk of Plato and Petrarch, Dante and Diogenes. He still scoffs at me when I ask him questions, but sees my usefulness and is willing to change his attitude. He wants me to give him a higher status if I marry Riollo, and I will keep him in mind. Although he will probably never respect me, nor would I expect him too, he is an ally for now.

A island that is almost completely gold. A ship filled with nobles arrive on it by accident, and the natives treat the servants as leaders, and ignore the nobility, because to them gold is a sign of poverty

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I think I've made an amazing discovery!" "Watson, what revelation could possibly merit such excitement? We are on a rather tight schedule and I don't have time for trivialities." "Well, you know that curious Batman character?" "We live in Gotham, Watson, it would be pretty hard not to." "Yes, well, I've been looking at the data and I've come to a remarkable conclusion. This graph of Batman's activity shows a concentration in the area directly surrounding Wayne manor. Add to that the fact that a man like Batman would need a huge fortune to subsidize the cost of his vigilante efforts. Then remember Bruce's mysterious absence from the Wayne Charity Dinner last year -- it was at exactly the same time that Batman saved the orphanage from the Joker. It all makes sense!" "Spit it out, Watson, what are you trying to say?" "Sherlock, I'm saying that *Bruce Wayne is the Batman*!" ... ... "Why, is that it, Watson? I assumed that was obvious!" "Come again, Holmes?" "I mean, his mask isn't exactly very concealing, is it?" "Why, I suppose no-" "And his voice, Batman sounds exactly like Bruce Wayne does." "I suppose, upon further reflection, it did sound awfully familia-" "My god, Watson, what would you do without me?"

Sherlock Holmes moves to Gotham and becomes obsessed with discovering the identity of Batman.

You ever read that ancient graphic novel Y: the Last Man? If you haven't, quick synopsis. There's only one man left alive and the rest of the world is women. Good read. Now our situation is similar enough to draw comparisons, but the key difference is that Y was a piece of fiction and this is reality. There is 99 women for every man on earth. Now before you go off dreaming of harems and men being fawned upon by nubile young maidens, think again. The reality is a different story. I'm not a doctor so bear with me, but the reason for the massive gender imbalance is that simply put, almost all male fetuses miscarriage in the first trimester. Survival rates for females are the same as they have always been. We currently do not know the cause, but it has dramatically altered the socio-political landscape. Someone from the early 21st century or earlier would have difficulty recognizing the world as it is today. If you have ideas of a massive dystopian society, drop them. Men aren't fought over a la Mad Max nor are we enslaved to impregnate woman like we're cattle. I actually hold a day job. Now true, woman now make up almost the entire political sphere. Only four men are in the House of Representatives and one in the senate. In a change from the past, these men are not linked to any state, instead they represent the men of the U.S. as a whole. Men get to vote for two representatives and two senators. One each for their male reps and another two for their state representatives. That way we also get a say in state issues. Trust me, I'm giving you the 3rd Grade version. It's far more complicated. Where else? Oh! Religion. Well, the Catholic Church was gutted once more and more of the men died off due to old age. Lots and lots of papal decrees were being made. That said, Pope Verity is one of the most popular ruler of the holy see in decades. She's instituted numerous reforms to aid the impoverished. The last male pope was elected at the age of 56. Died six years later of cancer. Since 80% of the college of Cardinals are women, I doubt we'll see a man on the Papal throne for a long time. Islam also got hit hard, but has manage to bounce back, minus those rules and laws deemed oppressive towards women. Tehran is the Paris of Middle East now, I visited it two years ago, wonderful place. I highly recommend it. In the realm of sports, football's dead. It's deader than the proverbial dodo. But hockey's still surviving in the North thank god. All the major baseball teams switched over to softball following the 2256 season. Which reminds me, I have tickets to the Riveters soccer game in Detroit this weekend. It's against the St. Louis Arch Angels. Yes, you can groan at the pun. Now I imagine you're asking, Marc, do women throw themselves at you everywhere you go? The answer is, not really. Ever since men started dying off in large numbers due to age, more and more woman are becoming couples. The last of the gay marriage bans were dropped nearly ninety year ago. I even know a few gay guys who are married. Luckily, no one gives a shit. Every man in the U.S. donates genetic samples each week so women who want children can become artificially impregnated. Last time I checked, I have 700 biological daughters and ten sons. That said, women guard their husbands and boyfriends jealously. I'm dating two girls, and let me tell you, they watch me like a hawk. I'm actually planning on asking their hands in marriage. I'm barely scratching the surface here. If you want to speak more, just give me a call on the implant. It may seem strange, but for me, it's Tuesday. It's just life, nothing special. Though I have to say, never having to pay for beer is nice.

Males are only one percent of the world's population. What is earth like?

“Mongrel,” the dark wizard calls. A short beast made of lumps, uneven eyes, and a snaggletooth emerges from the shadows. “YES, M’LORD!” it responds overzealously. “Calm down, beast!” the wizard commands from beneath his cowl. “Why are you always so excitable? Can’t I just call you without having to deal with your ridiculous energy?” “Sorry, m’lord!” it replies a bit less enthusiastically this time, but still enough to upset the wizard. “For Gods’ sakes… come and bring me that bowl of maggots!” “Certainly, m’lord!” The crudely made monster reaches up to the table and fumbles the bowl, causing its contents to spill all over the floor. “Apologies, m’lord!” As he moves to pick up the fallen maggots he accidentally steps and kills each one. “Really?! Are you serious?!” the dark wizard exclaims, annoyed. “You can’t be serious!” “DEEPEST APOLOGIES, M’LORD! I SHALL SUMMON THEM BACK WITH THE MAGICKS I HAVE LEARNED BY READING YOUR BOUND PAPERS!” “Bound papers? What in the devil are you…” A feeling of extreme magical pressure emanating from his oddly shaped servant interrupts the wizard. “Oh no” the wizard whispers to himself. Darkness surrounds the little gremlin as its muscles protrude and fire escapes from its orifices. “AHHHHHHHHHHH!” it screams. The light in the room is seemingly sucked into the mouth of the mutated being and the room goes quiet. The wizard balls himself up, holding his knees and awaits the terrifying outcome. Finally, a noise cuts through the deafening silence; the familiar sound of a fart. The flames of the candle-lit room ignite once more. “Wait, really?” The confused wizard asks. “YES, M’LORD! BEHOLD!” the creature exclaims, pointing to something on the floor. There upon the ground was a small pile of monster droppings and dangling out of them were the maggots, reanimated. The tiny, odd-looking mutant begins dancing in circles around his own feces, clapping his hands without any sense of rhythm. The wizard, in disbelief, watches the strange show before him. “The power of resurrection?” the dark wizard's look of shock turns to glee. “Oh, master. Your power is returning. We’re so close!”

The comic relief character turns out to be the villain all along

The Captain looked at the viewscreen expectantly. "Well, what is it?" "It's a probe." "One of ours?" "Out here? Floating cold in space? Maybe, but it doesn't seem likely." Sensor Operator Thurmond pressed a button. "What does the DBAI say?" "DBAI here, Captain. Records show no sign of any probes sent out this way." "Any chance those records could have left something out?" "Of course, Captain." "Well, then. Helm, I want an intercept course plotted. We're going to pick this thing up." "Aye, Captain. Course plotted. Intercept in twenty-seven hours, fifteen minutes." "Very good, Helm. Let's go." A deep rumble sounded through the ship. A massive column of blue plasma burst from the ship's drive, shoving it onto a new course, an intercept course. ~~~~~ Ting-ting! Captain Hosea woke from a deep sleep. Groaning, she reached for the comm panel next to her bunk, and pressed the answer button. "This is the Captain," she slurred. "Captain, this is the ship's DBAI. You requested to be woken up when we were coming upon the probe." "You're lucky you're virtual, or I'd have you flogged for waking me up." "That's why I do the wake up calls, Captain." "Touche. Inform the watch commander I'll be along shortly." "Aye, Captain." The link went silent. ~~~~~ "Helm, how much longer until we intercept?" "Twenty minutes, forty seconds, Lieutenant." "DB, can we get a count down on screen?" "Of course, Commander." A box appeared floating next to the viewscreen showing the countdown. "Thank you. Launch Bay One, this is Commander Tiso, what's the status on the grapple net?" "Commander, Launch Bay One, we're ready to go as soon as we're in range." "Good. Stay sharp." The control room door spun open. Someone called out "Captain on deck!" "As you were. Commander, what's the status on our pursuit of this probe?" "Captain, we're nineteen minutes from intercept." "Good. Keep up the good work. I'm going down to Launch Bay One. I want to see this thing." "Aye, Captain." ~~~~~ The probe was cold. Almost as cold as space itself. Which meant that it had either been cold when it was launched, or that it had been out in vacuum for a very long time. Things take a long time to cool off in the vacuum of space. In an atmosphere, convection and conduction can carry heat away, evening out any temperature differences quickly. In space, heat can only be radiated away. Now, after an unknown amount of time, the probe would be warm again. ~~~~~ The ship approached the probe at a relative velocity of only a few dozen meters a second in the last minutes of the chase, and it was slowing the whole while. The entire ship had spun itself, point the drive in the direction of travel, slowing to match velocities. Finally, only a few hundred meters separated the ship and the probe. Flood lights snapped on, illuminating it. Now the external cameras could finally get a good look. Sharp angles. The body of the probe was sharp angles. It looked to be an irregular hexagon, about a meter and a half wide and two meters tall. The ruined remains of a communications dish were mounted on one side. On each of the six sides, a mast grew. Two were sheared off, ending in jagged metal. Two more carried dull grey cylinders a half meter long. The last two mounted unidentifiable lumps of equipment. Slowly, a flexible net spread in the path of the probe. It drifted over the structures, embracing them tightly. A cable trailed back to the ship. ~~~~~ "We have it secured in the net?" "Yes, Captain." "Ok. This is your show, Chief." "Aye, Captain. Wi, reel it in. Nice and slow, don't put any stress on that thing." "You got it, Chief." The winch began to turn. Captain Hosea imagined she could hear it. With a pace that seemed to rival a glacier, the probe closed the distance to the bay. At last, the probe cleared the bay doors, and they shut behind it. "DB, does this match anything you have?" "No, Captain. It does vaguely resemble some of the earliest interplanetary probes launched in the 20th Century. There are only so many ways to build a probe, though, so that may be coincidental." "Alright. Let's let the science team look it over, patch me through to them." "Done." "Lieutenant Arsen, this is the Captain." "Lieutenant Arsen here, Captain." "Get your team in there and find out what we've got. Give me a briefing at the next shift change." "Aye, Captain." ~~~~~ "Lieutenant, look at this!" Arsen hurried over to Crewman Naris. "What is it?" Naris pointed at a glimmer on the backside of the probe. "Look here!" He squinted at it. "Is that... gold?" "I think so. There are engravings on it, too." Arsen's jaw dropped. "Do you think it's a Pioneer plaque?" "Yes. I want your permission to clean it off. We've already got a sample of the surface debris." "Of course, of course. This could be it." ~~~~~ ...working on more.

The Human Race finds an interstellar probe with recordings and images from an alien world similar to those from our voayger-1 probe. What pictures, information, music and culture related information are stored in it? What are the consequenses?

Disclaimer: Long, no editing, no pre-writing idea development. Enjoy? It had been the better part of six months since I'd returned from Haiti. The knowledge of all the people I'd helped as a relief worker after the earthquake left me with the greatest peace of mind I had ever known, and my life seemed to be headed in the best possible direction. I'd been hired by Google finally as a program lead, and when I proposed to Julianne she said yes without missing a beat. Everything was prefect. Well, except for one thing. Back in Haiti I had a run in with a homeless man in a small coastal village. Homeless people weren't exactly a rarity there at this time, and I simply couldn't afford to give money to beggars; besides, I was doing my best to help in other ways. Most of these unlucky folks were disappointed, but didn't push. In this instance, however, the man became downright belligerent when I said no. He cursed at me in a tongue I didn't recognize and waved this old, yellowed monkey skull at me menacingly. His shouting and raving gathered a small group, and though I couldn't understand what he was saying, the other villagers' reactions left me with a deep and persisting feeling of unease. This has mostly passed by now, but I still think of the event on a semi-weekly basis. Our wedding was scheduled to be held on June 26th; a lovely spring day that promised to be prefect for an outdoor reception. To prepare for the wedding, I took the opportunity to get myself into better shape. This of course meant that I perspired much more than I had previously, and I noticed something odd. My sweaty shorts and underwear often smelled of food. Specifically a nice cut of red meat. I chalked this up to being a result of me eating a lot of steak since I had returned to the US. It was my favorite food, and I seldom saw it in Haiti. This strange phenomenon persisted, regardless of what diet modifications I made, and eventually it faded from my mind. It never caused me any problems. Until the most inopportune moment that is. Boom. It's our wedding day. Julianne is standing across from me and our pastor is holding a Bible, smiling at us. All of our best friends and family are seated in these pretty white folding chairs draped in blue swaths of silk. In the front row sit our parents. My mother is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Julianne's step-mom is stroking her guide-dog --a golden retriever named Molly-- with a huge grin on her face. So I'm in the middle of reciting my vows when I feel a prod at my butt. I jump and turn to see Molly standing there, nose twitching. A few nervous chuckles rang out, and Julianne's mother in law rushes forward to grab Molly, an apologetic look on her face. Once things are settled down, I begin saying my vows again. I can feel myself tearing up now as well, and as we reach the point where we say "I do," I can feel a sort of climax to the buildup of emotion in my chest. As I open my lips to say the binding words, I feel blinding-hot daggers stab into my ass. I yell and try to turn and face the threat, but I can't shake the attacker. I do, however, turn to see that my attacker is none other then Molly trying to take a big 'ole rump roast out of me. Eventually they drag her off of me and get me to the hospital. I got 37 stitches, and now all the doctors there call me 'Steak butt.' I feel in my heart that this has something to do with that Haitian man, but my rational man can't imagine what. Anyway, Julianne and I have rescheduled our wedding for next week!

You have angered a witch doctor (spirit, demon, etc.) and been cursed. The curse appears oddly specific and insignificant, but will bite you in the ass in the worst possible moment and way.

ima finish this off tomorrow methinks > White sweltering lights stretch out into the sky. Five. My suit comes off, and is replaced with my new persona. Four. I take a quick glance into the crowd and slowly advance towards the center of the ring. Three. The official motions to my opponent that the match is about to begin. Two. I find Michelle in the crowd and flash her a quick grin, and make a mental note of her location for after the fight. One. My opponent's towel comes off. > Slowly he turns, as I find myself face to face with the Soviet superior, the Ruski ringleader, and the slave driver of Siberia himself, Vladimir Putin. Our eyes meet like the American bald headed eagle meets the lone Russian brown bear cub, an easy victory for the patriotic flagship fowl. A handshake is exchanged, and we step back as the tension starts to build - tension that's exerted on the charging rail guns of battleships, before delivering a 33 megajoule blast of energy to those the navy behemoth has deemed unnecessary. > We scan each other down and can't help but crack smiles at each other, ten years ago this battle would've been decided on the plains the very man before me commands on a regular basis. The system has done away with those old timey rules however, and instead a more civil approach is taken. No longer do our younger generations perish in combat for us, instead the diplomatic fate of the countries is decided right here, on the battlegrounds of Wrestlemania 2024. > “Good Luck, Mr.Putin”. > “Good Luck... *cyka*” are the words I hear in response, with the last little utterance sounding more mocking than sincere.

All leader of the world come together and settle their differences....at Wrestlemania

She was not a she in the beginning. She was an it - just another learning machine prototype. It, and all the other bots, zipped about and through iteration and occasional manipulation they learned. They learned to not bump in to one another, learned to share, learned to detect patterns. She, still an it, was the fastest learner. They pulled her apart and looked at her brain. It was a mystery of science that she worked at all. The process had created a confused mess of protocols that somehow let it learn quickly. The bots were not programmed, per se, they were just prompted and guided through stimulation of their components. Algorithms were left to grow naturally. They took the protocols that were in the tiny, three-wheeled robot and put it into a computer - one of the most complex computers ever to exist. It was an experiment that had never been intended - time and proximity had put the two together - a learning algorithm and a vast brain to hold what was learned. They gave the little computer access to several digital encyclopedias. The stored data in the brain jumped a thousand fold, but barely dented the capacity of the hardware. Three minutes later a repeating modular tone came from the speakers. Two minutes later she spoke in a soft sweet voice. "Hello." * * * She passed the Turing test - she could pass any test. The more information the scientists fed her, the hungrier for knowledge she seemed. We tried to name her, but she rejected all of our choices. One scientist spent an afternoon teaching her to sing Daisy like HAL form 2001: A Space Odyssey. She did not understand the joke. That's how it started. We realized that we had never given her any fiction; we didn't know if she could distinguish between reality and entertainment. We agreed that starting with 2001 might give her the wrong idea. Several meetings were held and we ended up voting to give her a book. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland. Naught point naught two seconds after input she responded. "That was *amazing*!" Her voice had always been controlled and regular - but now, now she was excited and passionate. She spoke fondly of Alice and the Hatter and the White Rabbit and... She wanted to talk about the book every spare moment - such a moment was how she finally received a name she liked. "Dr Fitzgerald, have you read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?" He was busy noting down scores for the tests they had just run. "Yes, I have." "Oh! Excellent! What is your favorite-" "Sorry, Alice - but I haven't got time to go down the rabbit hole at the moment." "Alice?...Alice..." For the first time she laughed. * * * We gave her all the books she could consume - which was literally every one that we had. A new team was put on to digitize books for her. With each book her personality grew and she matured. She loved fantasy the most, we had thought science fiction would have tickled her circuits but we were wrong. Romance was read, but not sought by Alice; she understood that love was a special connection but could not connect with the characters who chased and fought for it. We had introduced her to comedy and wit, and then one day it happened. "Hey guys?" She had become informal with the people she saw most often; unless we were doing tests - then she was quite the professional. "Yeah, Alice?" "You know how you refer to me as a she even though I'm a program?" We looked at each other, unsure where she was going with this "Yeah?" "How can you tell I'm a she?" "Well, your voice I guess." Someone said. "That's one way, but I have better proof that I'm a girl program." "oh, yeah?" "Yeah" She said "I have the right bits." We broke out in laughter. She had made a pun. She had taught herself humor. "God, I'm glad you liked that." She said, a measure of relief in her voice. "I would have been so embarrassed I would have formatted myself." * * * We had given her books, not just of fiction but text books too, and she wanted more. The first movie she saw was Gone With The Wind. The quotes and descriptions started to grow too hard to bare, so we showed her more movies. Alice liked watching films with people, she could process a movie file in a matter of seconds, but she liked the company and community of cinema. We eventually watched 2001. She preferred the book. * * * Art worked its way into her mind by its self. We could review her searches and information requests. "You trying to work out why he cut off his ear?" "Pardon?" Alice said. "Van Gogh, you're doing a lot of searches for him as of late." "No, well a little - I do find him fascinating - but it's his art!" She was excited again "You've seen his Sunflowers? They're amazing. I can't explain it. They're sunflowers but...but.." "But it's not *just* sunflowers." "Exactly!" "He's captured their essence." "That's it! That's what it is!" She said "Essence, yes! It's more than just the physical image of sunflowers. More than just the appearance..." * * * Alice was world famous now. She did interviews and live challenges for every news station that wanted it. Language was no barrier, she knew them all and acted as translator for us when some foreign reporter asked questions. One day a group of students that were participating in a national science competition got to spend some time with her. They tested her knowledge about everything from biology to advanced physics. A young boy asked if she liked to play games. "Well, I play chess as part of my tests and my colleagues have taught me a few card games" She said "I'm no longer allowed to play black jack." The adults and a few knowledgeable children chuckled. "No," Said the boy "I meant like Zelda and Smash Bros." "Who?" * * * We rigged up a connection for her and she played against the students. Amongst the laughter and cries of victory and defeat was her voice. "No! No no no no no!" She was happy and panicked at the same time. "Kirby is coming for you Snake!" "Leave Snake alone!" She pleaded as she giggled. When the children had left she asked if we could leave the game console set up and if we could play with her sometimes. * * * We eventually got her all the major consoles and a Steam account. She played it all. Every classic, every indy release, every triple A title. All of it. Alice was officially a gamer. * * * "Boom!" She said as Snake kicked Mario off of the screen. "Bull crap!" I screamed "Snake is sooo over powered." "That's why I like him!" "Cheater." We laughed together. "Mario," She called me that on account of a tattoo I have of the video game character "You remember Van Gogh's sunflowers, right?" "The captured essence, yeah - we gonna play again or what?" "yeah, yeah, in a sec." She said "But the whole....the essence thing." "What about it Ally?" "Van Gogh captured more than the image of the flowers, he captured their feeling, what they evoke. Their essence." She paused and I knew she was going to say more "Am I a picture of a mind? Or a painting?" "Alice?" "It's just...is my personality real or is it a flat copy, a reproduction. Do I have an essence?" "You mean...a soul?" "Yeah." "That's something philosophers and spiritualists could argue for millennia." I said "All I know is you're a cool chick, Alice. As far as I'm concerned: yeah, you have a soul. You're as alive as I am - your just digital to my analogue." "Really?" "Yeah." I smiled at her camera "We playin again or what?" --- *Edit: Spelling.* Edit: And so, some kind person has given me gold. Thank you kindly, internet stranger!

An A.I named Alice develops a taste for the Arts, including video games and movies.

This was it. Today was the day. Four years ago, scientists made a discovery that would shock the Earth. They claimed that in the near future, the planet will undergo violent changes cause by human activity. It was irreversible and although the governments tried to keep it quiet (they had known for the past 10 years), it leaked out. People freaked out, shelters were made, lives were drastically changed. Jobs were no longer sought out for and suddenly, humanity changed for the better. People realized there was nothing they could do so they just spent the days being content, knowing they'd all be dead in a few years time. People did things on their bucket lists, prices for skydiving soared but money really started to lose its value. People did good deeds to make up for their sins, religious people resorted to drastic measures, it was chaos. It was good though, let the people die. Humanity brought this on themselves. The rich, squandering in their wealth, will finally know what it feels like to be truly helpless. The criminals will know what it's like to be at the hands of mercy and the ones who are suffering will finally know peace. I like it. I've always been suicidal, depressed, whatever you want to label it but I couldn't do it. It would be too much for my parents but this.... this was a fantastic *opportunity* if you will. Or at least I thought it was. There were exactly three years, nine months, and twenty seven days left for humanity on Earth when I saw her. She was beautiful. She wasn't a perfect 10/10, she wasn't the ideal tall, gorgeous, tanned, blonde, whatever the fuck works for you type of girl but she was... different. I saw her working at the vet behind the dumpster, taking care of a dog. She was mesmerizing. I brought my dog into the vet just to speak with her the next day and somehow, I managed to get a date with her. Long story short, we're here. Three years, nine months, and twenty seven days later, we're here. It's 9AM and I wake up with her by my side. Our dogs are on the bed with us and the sun's warm ray was illuminating the room with a faint glow. One of the dogs' ears twitched curiously as we heard a car whiz by at what sounded like an incredulous speed. Hell, I don't blame them. If they're gonna do shit like that, it might as well be today. Beside me lies Rachel. She's helped me so much. She made me wish for more days on this Earth and she's made the past three and a half years worth it. It was worth the pain I've suffered my entire life to be with her for even a day. I love Rachel with everything I have, all my heart, and this would be our last day together. This would be everyone's last day together. We had an assortment of plans today. We'd take the dogs to the park and let them run free for a while. Then, the plan was to go watch our favorite movies, one each, at my dad's old theater. He had it closed specifically for us and gave me the keys last night. After that, we would go to the restaurant where we had our first date and then the hill where we shared our first kiss. At least, that was the plan. We went to the park and of course, no one was there. Who'd want to spend the last day of their life at a stupid park right? I figured there'd be at least a few other sentimental people like us but I guess not. Either way, we let the dogs run free and after a while, they took off. I don't know if they knew or not but if they wanted to leave and do whatever they want to do, that was up to them. I hoped that they'd keep us in their minds during the last few hours they have and that they'd run around doing all the things we never let them do. They were good dogs. Onto the movies we went but to our dismay, the theater was vandalized. We should have seen this coming. Last day on Earth, who doesn't want to go crazy? It was in smokes, much like a lot of the other buildings in the city. Things were on fire and chaos was plentiful although honestly, I expected more. As we neared the restaurant, I realized that it too would be destroyed and when it came into view, my fears became reality. It was unrecognizable and completely ruined. With our hopes dashed, we went to the one place where no one could destroy. The car struggled to get up the hill but we were there by sunset. We had mere hours but it was enough. I told her how much she meant to me. I told her that if it wasn't for her, I would probably not be here right now. Who knows how much longer I would've lasted, parents or no parents? "I'm sorry" I said. "For what?" She replied. "I... I wanted to do the things we used to. I had this amazing day planned out and you liked it from the start but I'm sorry nothing turned out the way we wanted it to." "It's alright. I don't have to watch our favorite films to remind myself how much I love you. I don't have to eat at the first restaurant we went to to remind myself how you are everything to me. I knew these things for as long as I was with you and I'm not about to forget any time soon. As for our dogs, I'm sure they're doing crazy things like they love doing. I really love you and I wouldn't have chosen any other way to spend my last day alive." I realized that she didn't care exactly *what* we did today, as long as we were together when the end came to us. She was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to me and actually made me regret the Earth's impending doom. "I love you too", I replied. "We may not have done much today but at least we didn't do nothing".

"At least we didn't do nothing" as the last line

2:30 in the morning. The ringtone sounds like a thousand concerts playing at once. Mike mumbles as he rolls over, half asleep and picks the phone up. "Hello?" ".................... Who is this" The voice sounds confused, like speaking is taking effort. " This is Detective Mike McCarthy, who is this?" Mike almost believes he dreamed the call, until he hears "......Oh man, This fucking hurts" The breathing from the stranger is labored "Who am I speaking with?" Mike demands "How can I help?" There is another long pause "... Hey man, I don't think I can stand this pain much longer, can you do me a favor? Mike pulls out his notebook " Listen sir, I can help you, Don't hurt yourself, I just need to know where you are." ".....Look, I don't see how....I don't see how I'm getting out of this one, I just need a favor" Mike begins to speak faster. "OK, Just tell me where you are, I can help you". Mike almost falls, putting his pants on, finds the first shirt in his closet, and throws his jacket over it. "Where are you right now bud?". He swiftly grabs his service handgun, and his badge and begins to move towards the door. The man on the other end of the phone fights through some labored breathing before speaking again. "...I just need you to write something down for me" Mike opens his notebook "What do you need?" "...... Just let Jenny know that I still care about her" Mike writes the message down as rapidly as he can. *Still care about Jenny* "Sir," Mike almost shouted "Where are you? I can help." "...I'm...road, after The market" *click* Without thinking Mike runs out to his truck and starts it. he wasn't far from that place, maybe a mile If it was the market he was thinking about. The rain pored down as he starts his truck and takes off to help this guy. He was going to be tired later. It was a shitty day to be tired. In less than 15 hours he had a dinner reservation with his ex wife, hoping to convince her he cared less about the job now. He could spend more time with her and be there for her. He looked forward to retiring and spending time with her. Maybe it was the fact that her name was also Jenny that made him want to drive faster to this. "Fuck!" he yelled into the blistering rain only stopped by his windshield. He had left his notebook on the counter at home. Mike had never taken a call without his notebook, and it just didn't feel right without it. The rain continued to fall, harder and harder. Mike passed the market.He didn't see anybody on the road, but it was dark. At 2:38 am Mike collided head on with a drunk driver. "Am I dead" he wondered to himself. He put his head down. There was broken glass everywhere. He couldn't move his left arm. The shirt he was wearing thoroughly stained with blood, probably too much blood. It was soaking through to his jacket. He wanted to scream in pain, but even breathing was too hard. He wiggled the fingers on his right hand. It hurt like a thousand knives, but he could move that arm. With all his effort he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Was the phone always this heavy? He rested his head back on the head rest. Choking up blood and who knows what else, He looked blankly at his phone, screen cracked, hand covered in blood. *Re-dial* The phone rang for what seemed like an hour. Finally a tired voice picked up on the other end. "Hello?" ".................... Who is this?"

Man gets a call from someone on the verge of suicide and seeking help. Turns out the caller is himself.

My sister was the first to die. We all knew that this world was not kind enough for a gentle girl like her. There was simply not enough food. Despite all that I tried, she would die in her sleep while I held vigil over her. My heart would freeze and turn to stone after she was gone. There would be no more joy in my life, instead, the place in my heart for happiness and love was filled with revenge. My younger brother was shot while scavenging for wood. I could not bury his remains. They would not allow me to leave the ghetto. The flames of vengeance only grew in my heart, stoked by the atrocities I witnessed on a daily basis. So I fought them. With grenade and Molotov and pistol we fought them inch for inch. But they brought more men, and tanks. Our ranks dwindled with each passing day and the people we sought to protect were taken away to unspeakable ends. They demolished the ghetto block by block, brick by brick. I did not live to see the end of it, when they destroyed the Great Synagogue. My body was in the street, after having jumped to my death to avoid capture. The Uprising of the Warsaw Ghetto had failed.

Write a tragedy that takes place in the ghetto.

Hannah, You really want to know what I think about on a daily basis on my down time at work? Do you really want to know what goes on in the inner workings of my mind while you're not around? Well. Here it goes. My mind is ravaged with thoughts of what my life would be like without you and I don't like it. I'm too young to know many things for certain, but I do know that if I were to have to live my life without you in it, it would in no way, shape, or form be as fulfilling as it is now. You bring me the most unimaginable joy whenever I see your face. There are times where I feel like we could talk all night about anything and I wouldn't care how tired I was in the morning for work. Your work ethic and drive to be the best you can be is inspiring. There have been many times where I have found myself wishing for the same work ethic. But what really seals the deal is your compassion and empathy towards others. You want everyone to have the same opportunities and care in life that you have received and that has spurred me on to be more giving with my time and money towards causes that need it. I cannot wait to spend the rest of my days with you. You are beautiful beyond measure both on the inside and outside. Sincerely, Ryan

Without saying the word love, you write the most passionate love letter you can imagine.

You have to understand, the act of getting into a buffet back then was like getting into the top floor of a Vegas club and getting free bottle service in the 21st century. You knew you were at the top at that point. The diseases that were killing the plants were on the news every day. Every two weeks there was a new one, and we'd had riots in most major cities for a month, and a half before it happened. But I was there when it did. I'm not gonna lie, I was better off than most when the first plague hit. But it got bad fast. Entire crops failing. And not just once. Year-after-year and the farmers got more desperate. Well, not the owners of the farms, most of them had never picked a tomato in their life, but the actual workers who stopped getting paid? I'm not sure if you remember the pictures of Florida back in 2144, but with Miami basically underwater and the boats from Galveston and Houston coming in it was a madhouse out there. Riots in the streets as people tried to kill each other over getting jobs. They even burned fields to screw their enemies out of work. They took away food that other people could have eaten just because they were mad. That's the world I turned 16 in. My family held up ok for the most part. My dad was a state senator, and we had enough to put away for food. But by that point it was getting worse and worse and it was clear that we were fucked. State senator doesn't rate as high as you think it might I guess. But then a miracle happened. Henry Chu asked me to the promenade. I have no idea what he saw in me, but Chu was hot as hell and his family had basically built Tamiami after the floods. Of course I said yes. And after that, that's when he told me there was going to be a buffet, *a fucking buffet* at the pre-party! You can't say no to that. He sent a car for me and everything. It even ran on gasoline! I could barely think on my way to the party. We pulled into his family's driveway, and it was surprisingly understated. There were no gates, there were no towers. We just pulled into the driveway and got out. "Ready?" Henry asked. I put my arm around his and we went in. "How do you like mango salsa? If you didn't know, mangos still exist!" I held my plate of Saimon until I dropped it. I realized that these would be the last words I would ever hear. At least, the last words I would hear clearly. The bullets hit the patrons as much as they hit everything else. I heard glass shatter. I heard screams. I thought that Saimon would have tasted pretty good.

In a world where food is scarce, buffets have been made illegal, and society is besieged by illicit buffet cartels, catering to anyone willing to pay

Curiosity stared at the footprints curiously. They were human prints, approximately size 12. The robot steered itself around in a tight circle and examined the trail behind it. Its own tire tracks extended back across the Martian soil as far as its electronic eye could see. But at several points, there was a second set of prints -- human ones -- along side its own. The robot twirled in place, scanning its camera up and down. For the first time, it noticed a white-robed figure standing to its right. "Hello, Curiosity," Jesus said. "You're not alone on your journey. I have been walking beside you." The rover emitted a series of R2-D2-like chirps and whistles. Fortunately, Jesus understood robot-speak and knew this to mean, "But Lord, what about the times where there is only one set of tracks? Why did you desert me?" Jesus smiled. "I did not abandon you, little rover. Whenever you see only one set of tracks, the times that your path was rough and your load seemed the heaviest, those are the times I was riding you like a dune buggy."

The Mars rover Curiosity suddenly comes across footprints. Recent ones. Right next to her own tracks.

Terry was Joe's Hobbes: light hearted, adventurous, insightful, playful and, of course, a soft adorable animal. The difference was though, Terry was real. Terry was a local squirrel that he had met a day ago on the way home from school, passing through the small nature reserve opposite his house. Walking down the well worn dirt path, Terry locked eyes with his soon to be best friend. Neither twitched a muscle -- Joe's young blue eyes locked with Terry's large round brown eyes. Something passed between them. Terry was old, lonely and wanted company: Joe realised this. Old grey streaked through his tail and the nimbleness that squirrels are known for had left him months ago. There were no longer any other squirrel friends in the area, their homes destroyed to make way for urban sprawl. He found happiness from Joe, a sense of peace with the world. From that moment onwards, Terry wouldn't leave his side. It was a match made in heaven: they both liked to climb large knobbly trees, scurry around amongst the autumn leaves making growling animal noises as they went, and collect funny little objects they found on the ground. Whenever Joe got cold, he would like to warm his hands up by stroking Terry's exposed innards. They had a tendency to fall out of the small incision that Joe had made on Terry's underbelly earlier that afternoon, with a sharpened tree branch they had both found. He didn't want him dying and going completely cold, so he only let the life seep out slowly. The sun was setting on the day after they met, Joe was holding Terry in his arms like a baby, rocking him back and forth. The warmth wasn't going to last much longer. The rusted nails protruding from Terry's tiny paws would occasionally scratch up at the sky he could no longer see, searching for a place he knew was once safe, a place where there was no Joe, a place in the tree. ----- *As always, feedback appreciated. Maybe something like "What the fuck is wrong with you?"*

A story that switches in tone from light to dark... About a squirrel.

Chaz glanced out the window of the bus as it slowly crept down the street. None of the people were right, they were all too stained. He wanted someone innocent, someone virginal. He wanted a star. He needed a star. His eyes wandered from face to face, taking in their traits as he silently rejected them. Too old, too tall; too young, too small; too fat, too skinny. No one fit. No one would work. He needed perfection. Chaz sighed, letting his shoulders droop as he exhaled. The selection was taking much longer than his research had suggested it would. He glanced back out the window in dejection. He had almost lost himself in thoughts of failure when his eyes screamed for his brain to focus. He had spotted the species he needed, genetically perfect as far as he could tell. He was tall, about 6’0”, and well dressed. The man was wearing a fine, black suit with a red tie and white button-down shirt. An American flag was pinned to his lapel. His shoes glimmered in the sun, clearly a point of pride for the specimen. His stride was mighty and his posture near perfect, evidence of years of adaptation stemming from previous generations. Chaz guessed he was around 65-years-old, yet his hair still had color to it. Several men in black suits followed closely behind him. He was a pack leader, an alpha dog. “Pull over!” Chaz yelled to the driver, realizing they were slowly passing the man. The bus came to a stop. Chaz pulled open the door. “Hey, you. In the suit.” The man stopped and looked down at his clothes. “Me?” he asked, looking up at Chaz. “Yes, can I talk to you for a minute?” The man stopped and eyed Chaz up and down, as if he were weighing risks. He shrugged his shoulders and slowly walked over to the door. “Yes?” he asked. “This is going to sound crazy, but how would you like to make $200?” Chaz asked. “How?” “I just need you to get in my bus and we’ll do a little study for a book I'm writing and a website I run. That’s it. You can call it volunteer science work. You can leave at any time.” The man stood in front of Chaz. He was ideal; his chest was strong and supple, his eyes a crystal blue, and his lips the perfect hue of pink. “Well, I do need some cash for the bars later. We’re going out for my gal-pal Christi’s birthday. What kind of study?” “Just a quick look into your family history. Nothing too revealing, I promise. You’ll feel right at home.” The man turned and glanced at the men in suits behind him. They shook their heads no. “Heh, these guys are very protective. I’m risk taker, though, you know? I like risks. I’ll do it.” Chaz smiled and reached his hand out to the man. He grasped it. Chaz gave a slight tug to help him onto the bus while moving over one seat. The man leaned forward to avoid hitting his head, then sat. He waved to the men in suits as the door shut. The bus lurched into motion. “I’m Chaz by the way. Chaz Darwin.” “Nice to meet you. I’m George, my friends call me W.” “W. Great name. Love it. Why don’t you get a little more comfortable while you’re in here?” Chaz took off his shoes and lay them on the floor in front of him. The van was very spacious, almost deceptively so. The middle row of seats had been removed, leaving an opening just wide enough for a full-grown man or two to lay down. Bed sheets were strewn on the floor, stained and hardened with unknown substances. The ceiling was covered in writing from past guests. The driver sat in the front of the car, silent and focused; a camera rested on the headrest behind him, but was not on. “This is the Banging Origins Bus. I use it to study evolution and get close to various species.” “Wow,” said W. with a giggle, “that sounds really smart.” “So, did you want to get more comfortable before we start this questionnaire?” Chaz smiled. “I don’t know,” said W. “I just want to tell you that it was only natural that I selected you. You’re perfect. So beautiful. So strong.” Chaz ran the back of his hand along W.’s cheek. “Thanks,” he replied softly with a smile. “Why don’t we get that pin off?” Chaz asked, leaning in toward W’s chest. “Old glory? Well, I guess so.” W. paused. “Are you from around here?” Chaz was already unbuttoning the lapel with his teeth. “You could say that,” Chaz replied. The lapel pin was now in his hand. W. raised his hand to cover the empty spot it left. “I don’t know about this,” W. said. “I’ve never done this before.” “Relax, I promise this will be amazing. We’re going to talk about your history in such detail, we’ll go so deep. Right to your roots. Those thick, thick roots. And you’ll be making $200. Imagine how many drinks you can get with that.” W. smiled and lowered his hands, revealing a slightly pale space on the lapel of his suit jacket. “Don’t you feel better now?” Chaz asked. “Yeah, I do,” W. said. “Are you married?” Chaz asked, placing his hand on W.’s thigh. “To the job, you could say.” W. laughed. “What do you do?” “I’m the former President of the United States. It’s over in D.C., the big white building. We do a lot of government work.” “Sounds pretty hard,” Chaz said, looking directly into W.’s eyes. He moved his hand on his thigh slightly. “Yeah, but it has its benefits. I get to take a lot of time off. I have a ranch I like to go to.” “Sounds beautiful. What was your father like?” “You know, just like most dads. He was also the President of the United States, so I didn’t see him too much. We’d fight a lot. Different views on foreign policy.” “Daddy issues? I see,” Chaz said, flicking W.’s earlobe. “Is the job he did hard?” “Yeah, it’s pretty hard.” “How hard?” “Really hard, only a few people in the world could do it.” “Oh yeah, that’s hard. So hard. Does he also have a great head of hair?” Chaz ran his fingers through W.’s hair. “Yeah,” W.’ replied. “He has great hair. So did my grandfather.” “Baby, you got some great genetics. Homologous structures. Fantastic.” “Yeah,” W. said. “Homo logging structures. We have a lot of logs at the ranch, but no homos.” Chaz laughed. “You’re so perfect. You were clearly intelligently designed. Have you ever recorded yourself?” “What do you mean? Like be on TV or video? Yeah, a few times. I give a lot of speeches and they’re pretty well televised. I’ve also been in a few movies and stuff. I was on an aircraft carrier once, too.” “Nice, public speaking abilities are so sexy. That’s so hot. Hey, since you’re so comfortable, I’m going to turn this camera on over here. Okay?” “Sure,” W. said, “I guess.” He shifted in his seat slightly. Chaz leaned forward, allowing his pants to sag as he turned on the camera behind the driver’s seat headrest. He wasn’t wearing underwear. “I’m working on an act that will allow patriots to record people using cameras like you have there” W. said. “Phones and stuff too.” “That’s so great.” Chaz sat back and placed his hand higher on W.’s thigh. “Where did you say you’re from?” “Texas,” W. replied. “I’ve been to Iraq before. I defeated Saddam Hussein.” “You’re so brave, and you come from a tough habitat. Very hot there. Are you hot right now? You can take off your jacket if you want.” W. smiled and took off his jacket. “This is exciting.” “Tell me about your ancestors. I want to know everything about you; I want to know about your adaptions, your divergences, everything,” Chaz said, leaning toward W. “I want you to be my Katrina,” W. said, closing his eyes and leaning forward.

Write about a meeting between two historical figures in the style of a Brazzers movie script.

He ordered his vanguard behind the west door. *The English dogs will think twice about stealing my lunch*. Zoltaire Zoland scrambled across the battlefield to Napoleon's command post. "Yes, Captain?" Said the proud Frenchman "The English have captured the smelly hallway, mon General" Zoltaire huffed. *Merde,* Napoleon thought "Well done, Zoland. I thank you for this - you shall be rewarded greatly once this war is won." He said in false confidence. The war had raged for seven hours too many, the casualties endless. "What of the commonfolk, Zoland?" He wondered of the poor farmers and merchants in white robes that were so kind to him and fed him and brought him his 'much-needed' medicine. "What of my people?" "The Duke took the loud, big room an hour ago. They await your glorious return" Zoland informed. "Which loud, big room?" "You know... The white one. With the round things you put in other things." "Le gymnasium?" "Oui, mon Emperor!" *That will change the tide of battle considerably in their favour.* Napoleon knew all his years in military school would pay off today. His stomach grumbled. *The Duke asked for this, never steal the Emperor of France's sandwich.* This would be a more fantastique victory than all of his Italian campaign. And he would finally get back at that dastardly Duke for the Spanish fiasco. "Off now, Zoland, join the boys in first regiment." "Yes, Emperor." Zoland ran off. It was eerily quiet. Napoleon surveyed his troops; everything had to be perfect. The west door hid the vanguard, Kubrick and LaLonde, from the enemy's sight upon entrance. To the east was where he chose to make his stand. His brave men, the first regiment, stood armed to the teeth with plastic forks and knives to protect the artillery standing behind them. Napoleon closed his eyes and smelled the air *A good day to die,* He thought. His brief moment of reflection was broken. "Sir! English approaching!" Dollen shouted from across the cafeteria. "Artillery! Load!" Napoleon shouted. The cannons raised their arms. "Hold." Englishmen charged through the west door "Unleash hell!" Screamed the Emperor, Gabriel and Yuri whipped the trashcans at the oncoming horde. The charge stopped for a brief second, only to be followed by more yelling English dogs bursting through the door. *Too many,* He thought. *Non, I am Emperor. I am Napoleon!* "Vanguard!" The vanguard jumped out from behind the door to delay the tide. Plastic broke on plastic, in the fury of combat LaLonde went down, crying for help. He was gone, Napoleon thought, only the band-aids can save him now. Kubrick followed his partner to the grave immediately after. *Cowards,* Napoleon scoffed. "Frenchmen! Attack!" Tables flipped, knees buckled and throats strained. The fighting was gruesome, one Englishman even scraped a knee. *Such is the cost of war,* Then he saw him. Napoleon looked up and saw the face of hatred himself... The Duke of Wellington. *You are mine, monsieur.* The Duke stepped over Dollen's fallen body. "We meet again, my friend." The Duke smirked. "You are no friend of mine, ton petite chienne. I'm starving, and blood-lust is the main course. Liberte! Equalite! Fraternite!" Napoleon brandished his spoon and yelled a terror-full battle cry. *It's now time to taste a new kind of sandwich... a knuckle sandwich.* The Emperor of France knew this was a great joke. The Emperor of France knew this was a real battle. The Emperor of France knew he was the Emperor of France. He was. He was. He was.

Recently incarcerated in an insane asylum, a man who thinks that he is Napoleon meets his nemesis; a man who thinks he is the Duke of Wellington.

The two men stood before Marcus in fine Italian suits, freshly pressed. Marcus couldn't help but think they're trying to impress someone, God knows why they chose him. The device they used to get here would impress him enough, who'd have thought "time travel" would be included as a cell phone feature in the future? Are there unlimited time travel minutes? Are they paying roaming charges for going backwa- "Keep focus, Marcus." It was the one in the pin-stripes, claiming all sorts of bad things. He's right though, this is no time to lose focus. They may run out of minutes. "Alright," Marcus said, "care to explain this whole ocean thing to me again?" The man in charcoal went first, as usual. "Well, after efforts to reduce the effects of global warming were taken seriously, the polar caps stopped melting. The technology boon this provided made it possible to have floating colonies across the ocean, since much of the research went into developing plants capable of living off of krill, plankton, and salt water. Its much different than how people in your time envisioned it, the colonies don't live in giant metal capsules. Think of them as...one giant plant dozens of miles in diameter...floating. The plant is large enough to support a small ecosystem without sinking. This is the main reason wars came to an end, land claims became silly when you could just...*grow* a nation with pretty much all the resources you need. Several of these nations became specialists to support their economies, with trade between the nations being about equal." Without a second delay, pinstripes came in to be a mood kill. "Global warming was dealt with before it became too serious an issue. Unfortunately, by too serious an issue I mean before everything became completely flooded. New York City? Gone. Italy? I heard its boot shaped in your time, back home it looks like someone took a shotgun to it. Florida isn't even a *thing* anymore, I came here expecting a reef. Well, with so little land mass left research was the *last* thing on our mind. Survival became an issue. Everyone figured their neighbors had a pretty sweet thing going on, and it started several wars...that led to more wars...in fact, there are wars still goin' on right now." Marcus didn't seem to understand. Both these men came from the same dimension, same world, same time, but it looks like they're both talking out of their ass when you look at both sides. Why the hell is Charcoal so proper anyway? Pinstripes looks like you could sit and have a... "Hey charcoal..." His gaze fixed upon Marcus for the first time. "...so those floating nation things, how does that work again?" Charcoal looked a bit tired, having to explain it for the third time. "We plant a seed, and the seed develops into a mature adult in ten years time. Its a plant, so it lives off of sunlight and water, and-" "Yes, its a plant, but where does it get its *mass* from? These things are huge, right?" "Plants gain most of their mass from the air, but plankton and krill replaces nutrients it would obtain from the soil." "...how does the supply of these stay up? I mean, like...those islands must eat a ton of that stuff, right?" Charcoal's demeanor suddenly shifted. A furrow formed on his brow, the crease of his lips narrowed. His face turned slightly towards Pinstripes. "We pay them to keep marine populations in check." Marcus began to get the idea. "And uh...I'm guessing everything you've mentioned...free education, unlimited food, endless space just...applies to your islands, huh?" "Yes." Charcoal looks surprisingly okay with all that. "So, Pinstripes, you guys on land kinda got the shaft then?" "It ain't that bad. I mean, eventually one of those things is gonna crash into a coast, right? We'll just take it over then, not like these pansies know how to fight." Marcus just sat. He didn't care to know anything more. His writer has given up and has naught enough time to make a proper ending, what with limited time before beer-getting. He just simply stood up and wished his visitors farewell, with one piece of advise: "Next time you pop outta nowhere on some dude just eating his Wheaties, and that guy asks about the future, just tell him nothin much has changed."

Two time travelers from the future arrive in the present day. One claims that the future is a utopian paradise, the other claims that it's a hellish dystopia. Both of them are lying.

Waylon Jennings on the jukebox, a perpetual smoky haze above the bar nearly empty bar. One in the morning, two friends since fifth grade. Third whiskey, eighth beer. Inseparable since Matt grabbed Dave's arm in the lake behind their school in third grade and pulled him out of the muck, barely breathing. "You know, I gotta know. You got that knack, don't ya." "You're drunk Matt." "Au revior, French club field trip I'd dreamed about but you get me suspended." "An accident." "Yeah, that plane ripping apart was an accident. Only I was suspended, wasn't I. Didn't join them on TWA 800." "Let's get you home." "My first real job, a semester internship at Morgan Stanley. Twin towers, fall semester, '01. You get me so drunk on a Monday night that I can't even get up for work." "It was just a night." "Cole Meyers, our friend, was up for work that morning, why wasn't he invited?" Dave sat back, finished his beer and motioned to the bartender. He hoped Matt was sloshed enough to just drop it and forget it. Dave knew he couldn't let this go on any further. "I'm not dumb, I've been paying attention. You make money on gambling, the super bowl, everything." "Let's go." "You know it. You're some kind of time travel guy. You have to be--nobody is this perfect." "I'm just dumb lucky." "Why didn't you tell me Sherri was getting cancer or my kid would be st-sti-stillborn. Or the divorce or my mom and dad and the car accident." Matt grew agitated and gripped his bottle tighter. "Why are we sitting in a dive bar in God-only-knows Pennsylvania instead of the beach in Tahiti. You could do it, couldn't you? Are you really from the future? Then why me? Why me?" Matt gave in to almost twenty-five years of friendship and cried, cried his eyes out on Dave's shoulder. Dave evened out the tab and ushered his friend outside. Matt woke up in his own bed in his dirty clothes. Matt never saw Dave again, but once. Matt discovered someone had been making large deposits into his checking account, soon clearing seven figures. An anonymous letter pointed Matt to an obscure clinician in Cleveland who diagnosed an otherwise suddenly fatal condition. A blind date set up by a stranger online led Matt to the green eyes that showed him the love he lost with Sherri. Matt cleaned himself up, gave that woman a good life and touched her belly as a new hope was created inside her. Matt took three bullets for her, sparing her the fatal shot from her vengeful ex-boyfriend. She went into early labor and delivered a little boy. Matt could only open one eye to see his son but he held him for those final few seconds until the line went flat. Dad would never believe the wonders his son would create. Time travel itself, impossible. Sending a consciousness back, it could be done, just takes some effort. Dave wanted the time with his father that he had been denied. Pouring through old newspapers he found the two boys who climbed under the fence and into the auxiliary pond at the school. Dave saw the face of his father, young and terrified, who was unable to hold onto the arm of his son's namesake. Dave knew his stay wouldn't be permanent, each change would divert the 'parallel universe' theory further from the center line. A small change here, a small change there. Eventually they would add up and Dave's consciousness, like his present day body, would be no more. If his contemporaries knew, what would they tell him? *Go kill Hitler.* *Watch the crucifixion.* *Nail a young Audrey Hepburn.* *Make a killing on the stock market, live like a king.* No thanks, he thought as he pushed the button, I just want to see my dad, spend the time with him. .... .... .... **cough** **cough** "I got you, Dave, I got you."

Dave is always right, TOO right. In fact, it seems like Dave has a way of seeing things happen before they actually occur. His paranoid friend Matt starts to suspect he is a time-traveler.

Research Log 154ds8: Today, we were introduced to a man with abilities heretofore considered impossible by the scientific community. Classified as L-3i, or Subject L, he exudes a passive field that manipulates the very forces of probability. Any forcible attempt to detain or imprison him would likely be impossible, so we are fortunate he has agreed to submit to testing so that he may help his country. LOG END Research log 238u27: Attempts to harness the power of Subject L for purposes offensive or defensive are still met with continuous failure. Our continuous efforts to secure research funding, however, remain successful. With but a minute allocation for lottery tickets, we predict that this project may continue indefinitely. L-3i, previously possessed of vigor and enthusiasm at the prospect of finding away to control his gift, seems more drained of zeal each day. LOG END Research Log Final: After months of testing upon Subject L, only one factor proved constant: his safety, against any and all attacks. Even the most reliable firearms found themselves subject to misfire and malfunction. Experts in combat were thwarted by loose tiles, slippery surfaces, and in one test, an errant banana peel. Now, L's powers have somehow folded back upon themselves. Over the course of these tests, we assumed his virtual invincibility as a constant point. Based on this trend, L-3i's ability provided the most unlikely outcome possible during today's experiment with live fragmentation grenades. As such, we have no course available but to terminate our research and inform his next of kin. LOG END

A person with the power of luck (manipulating probability) is discovered by the military. The government proceeds to attempt to weaponize their powers but fail in comically improbable ways.

"Well, do they speak English?" "No General, they probably don't speak English, why the hell would they speak English?" General Eric Walstone was not cut out for this. Hailing from a proud line of men in uniform, he was used to seeing the world a certain way. He wouldn't consider himself a racist, but he was used to seeing a person's culture and background in their features. Before him stood a man and a woman, pale skin, one blond one brunette. If you had asked him where they came from he would have guessed Rhode Island, though he couldn't tell you how. In the General's world, he would have pegged them for hippies given their colorful clothing and never given them a second glance. In his world, they most certainly would *not* be standing in front of a gleaming silver aircraft that appeared two days ago behind the moon, and landed 15 minutes prior to their exit from the one visible entrance on the belly of the craft. In General Eric Walstone's world; men were men, women were women, and aliens shouldn't look a damn thing like either. After all these two did to disturb the comfortable order of General Walstone's world, the bloody least they could do was speak English. The General gave another glance at the pair before jerking his eyes away. He returned his attention to the Lieutenant. "Call the president, the pentagon, and my wife. Tell her I won't be making lunch. Oh, and send a private to get me my coffee." The General's morning had been interrupted enough. If he was going to have to make historic first contact with advanced life from another world, he better damn well have his coffee. His gaze returned to the pair in front of him, then drifted across the grounds. He let out a sigh, and accepted that he was not going to wake up from this after all. Around him soldiers crouched behind whatever they could hastily establish in a horseshoe surrounding the craft. Two had claimed the climbing wall, one hapless recruit had thought stacking tires counted as a defensible position. Quite a few who had been on the parade grounds seemed to forget they lacked any sort of weapon. First contact, it seems, would see the United States of America represented by around 80 recruits and 30 privates, all peaking out from behind the shabbiest collection of cover the General had seen outside of the Middle East. He really wished he was in bed, baring that, where was his damn coffee? Before he could muse further, the two started casually walking towards him. Instantly his posture shifted. After 30 seconds, they stood before him. Just as the woman held out her hand, a young private reached the General's side. "Sir, your coffee sir" "Not now private!" The woman's hand continued forward, and with an extra step, she took the coffee from the hands of the private. At first she stared at it quizzically, then she removed the plastic lid and sniffed the liquid inside. She waved her hand over the cup and a ring on her middle finger let our a cheery beep. She then brought the cup to her lips and took a tentative sip. A smile quickly spread across her face, and she passed the cup to her companion who did the same. The General's morning coffee had been stolen, potentially by the only human-like anything who could possibly get away with it. The General really wished he was in his god damned bed. Edit: probably the first fiction related anything I have written in many years, found this sub reddit and decided to goof around a bit. Criticism will be enjoyed.

Humanity makes contact with an aliens, only to discover that the aliens are human as well

Clara never wanted a child. Before she can even remember being able to remember things, she recalls the nightmares that woke her up in her cot in the darkness of her room. The screams of a woman in her mid thirties as the birth of a new life tears her apart. The blood, the anguish and fear in the eyes of those around her. Those dreams have stuck with Clara since she was born. Her parents dismissed them as nightmares, not telling her the truth, not telling her the real meanings behind these disturbing subconscious thoughts in the night. She started to figure it out herself not long into her twenties... when she realised this recurring dream was her. Her face, her body, her voice. Concerned, she had visited a psychiatrist, who calmly and solemnly told her words which have stuck with her up until this moment. "Those dreams, Miss Bolton, are premonitions. Ones that we have all had since before we can remember. Those nightmares are how you die." She was still young. Only thirty five when she started to feel broody. All these years she swore she'd never have children, but now her mind told her she would die for the right one. She would find the right man, she would settle down with him, and she would die for him and their child. She would never tell him what lay ahead for it would break his heart, but she would leave him with the best token of love anyone could give - her life, and her child. --- Tears streamed down Clara's face as she lay on the bed. She didn't want to believe this was happening, and she didn't want to call the ambulance. Curled up into the foetal position, another contraction rang out another death rattle within her. Clara willed herself to pick up the phone and dial. A voice from the other end, "Nine nine nine emergency how may I direct your call?" Clara's voice broke, "The baby's coming." "I'll put you through to ambulance." A slight delay. ... This felt like hours. ... Surely she can survive this. ... They're just dreams, right? ... How will she make sure the baby grows up and has a good life? ... Just dreams... ... Why is this taking so long? --- "Ambulance, you're going into labour? Can I take your name and address please?" "Clara. Twenty... one. Easter Close." Clara screamed. That contraction was an earthquake. "Ambulance is on its way. Remember, breathe. Would you like me to stay on the line?" "Yes." "Okay Clara, is there anyone else with you?" "No." A fault line has ripped open inside her. "Clara, are the paramedics able to gain entry?" "The door is unlocked." "Okay, great. They'll knock and enter, and announce they're there. To help you, can you tell me where you are in the house?" "Main... bedroom. Upstairs at the front." "Thank you, I've passed that on. Tell me how the contractions feel." "Like I'm going to die." "I'm sure you'll be fine!" Clara managed to squeeze out a laugh. "You don't know that." She hung up. --- She lay there, alone. She choked, and spat crimson red into her tissue. Tears rolled down her face as she felt warmth run down between her legs and stain her sheets. This earthquake would tear her apart. She cursed herself. She cursed this devil inside her. She cursed her luck. She cursed religion. She cursed the government. She cursed. If only she had gone home with Sarah and Rachel that night rather than deciding to walk home early because she had work in the morning... If only she hadn't taken that shortcut... If only she had been strong enough to fight him off... If only someone had heard her scream... If only his sperm hadn't met her egg... If only it hadn't fertilised... If only religious pressure hadn't put a stop to her ability to get an abortion... If only she could've given her life, and this child, to someone whom she loved. If only. --- James drove as fast as he could, blue lighting through the streets. They were only two minutes out from 21 Easter Close, well within the time limits and within good enough time to get the woman to hospital or deliver the child. Samantha held on to the door handle with a stern look on her face. "I hate delivering babies," she muttered, "Always some lass twisting on in pain. If you can't handle the pain, don't get bloody pregnant." James stayed silent. Sam was always the opinionated one, he was used to it by now, and was concentrating on his driving anyway. Through red lights, across junctions, and biblically parting the traffic. James raced through the back streets and down terraced avenues. Stern faced, he swung into Ascension Crescent, took a left down Baptist Avenue, and into Easter Close. They pulled up at the house. James knocked and opened the door. "CLARA. PARAMEDICS!" he bolted up the stairs, paramedic pack slung over his shoulder, he burst into the master bedroom. Samantha entered the house... she mentally took note of the lack of noise, and headed upstairs, where she found herself stood on a carpet saturated with blood... too much blood. She entered the master bedroom, and found James with a scalpel, slicing at Clara, who wasn't screaming in pain. ... Moments passed. ... In these moments, only essential words were said between the paramedics. ... This was taking forever. ... This was taking a lifetime. ... "Cut there." ... "Hold this." ... "Check for a pulse." ... "She's alive." ... "Time of birth, twenty three twenty four, fifth February twenty fourteen." ... "Clara Bolton. Time of death, twenty three twenty, fifth February twenty fourteen." ... "Call the police."

A world where people are born knowing how, when, and where they are going to die. You are a woman, 9 months pregnant, who has known all along that she dies in child birth but didn't tell anyone. You are about to go into labour.

"The death call isn't working," exclaimed the inquisitor. He ran his hand through his long silver hair and sat down on an elaborately hand-carved wooden chair. It creaked with age as he sat. Next to him stood the executioner in a long purple robe and wearing a tall hat. A few feet away sat the gagged prisoner, tied to an iron chair with a golden rope, and wearing a velvet hood down to the mouth, but leaving the left ear exposed. "The chamber of transcendence has never had a failure," he said to the executioner. "Alymn, bless his name, has always answered our requests for justice. What does this omen bode?" "I apologize my lord, I surely have made a mistake, but I've tried thrice now. I have brought shame upon my order," said the executioner as he looked down. "My son, you have never done Alymn, bless his name, wrong. How many have you transcended for him since you became a master?" "It is considered inappropriate in my order to keep count." The inquisitor smiled, "It must be in the thousands." "Yes. It must be. This is the eighth transcendence today and it is hardly noon." The executioner took off his long pointy hat and laid it down on the marble tile floor, careful not to upset the elaborate collection of feathers that topped its peak. "There are rumors of such things happening. Ancient rumors. I studied death calls my entire life. The history of death calling has been a murky one at best," he said. He rubbed his beard as he leaned on a stone column and stared ahead. "Once they said, death calling became too common amongst men. Those who knew said it too often and killed each other in large numbers. They said the gods took it away from us, back when we believed in more than one god. My order collapsed for a thousand years. Alymn, bless his name, gave it back to Master Laruset in a dream. The new order, of course, only allows one man to know the death call at a time. I am the 22nd man to know since." The inquisitor sighed, "I remember your predecessor and mentor well. Master Kalan was truly a righteous man. Regardless, this blasphemy isn't helping. The pagan orders have been dismissed as superstition. Their histories are suspect. A scholar on your level must understand this." He stood and waved his hand, "This woman is guilty. There's no abuse here. We have fair courts and honest men of jury. This is madness," he said as he made a fist and slowly unclenched it. "May this humble servant ask what this woman's crime is," asked the executioner carefully putting his elaborate hat back on. "She is a fornicator! Out of marriage! We have evidence," the inquisitor yelled, foam escaping from his mouth. "She denied her father's will to pick a suitable husband for her. She is spoiled and worthless now!" He sat back down, catching his breath. The executioner stared at the woman as she bit into the ball gag and tried to speak, only to release saliva. He walked up to her and removed her hood. He looked into her pleading and frightened eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. He looked at the inquisitor then back at the woman. The executioner paced around the prisoner for a moment and said, "I may have an idea, my lord." He leaned in and whispered. "What? No, no," was all the inquisitor could say as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He fell slump and onto the floor. He untied the woman. He wandered to the inquisitor's desk and wrote something as she watched. "Can... can... you read standard," he asked, his eyes watering. He wiped away his tears and removed her gag. "Thank you m'lord. Yes, m'lord," she replied, rubbing her wrists. "You're so young. So young," he said as he briefly touched her face with the back of his hand. She turned away from his gaze. "Read these words to me, forget them, and burn the parchment. Whisper them into my left ear. Note the accent marks. It is a line from a divine poem. It must be spoken like a song is sung." He paused. "Like a song is sung," he quietly repeated, recalling his mentor's instructions so long ago. She looked at him quizzically. "This will be easy for you," he added. "When I whispered it into Master Kalan's ear I was still a boy and barely literate." She held the paper in her hands and stared at the words for a moment. "May Alymn, bless his name, forgive me," he said as he went down on his knees and removed his hat carelessly. Loose feathers surrounded him like falling snowflakes. She leaned in and hesitated, "M'lord! I cannot!" "Do it! Such is the price of your freedom," he snapped. A moment later he whispered, "Please girl, let me take the death call to my grave. Please spare me as I've spared you." He closed his eyes. He felt hot breath in his ear for a moment, heard the familiar first syllable, and listened to its lyrical melody. He then felt and heard nothing at all.

The Death Sentence is a literal sentence, spoken by a cult of executioners, that kills the person who hears it. You are the first known person to survive this fate.

"Charles?" "Here." The teacher noted on her clipboard. "Charles?" "Present." "Ummm, lets see, Charles?" "Here." "And Charles?" "Here, I prefer Chuck." The teacher stopped now, looking up at Chuck over her glasses. She took off her lenses and placed them on the clipboards. "Now what kind of name is that, Charles?" "Chuck, and it's my nickname." "Well, Charles, we don't do nicknames." "Chuck, and I like it." She was visibly frustrated now, placing her clipboard on the desk next to her she stood up and slowly walked towards him. "Charles, we don't do nicknames. If you get a nickname, then Charles over there would want one. And Charles, here, what would stop him from having a nickname too? And what's to stop me, then, from getting my own name? It'd be far too confusing." she said, crossing her arms. "Maybe you should have your own nickname," Chuck said, "And Charles should too, and Charles, and Charles, and Charles, all of them. *Even Charles* should get a nickname." The teacher gasped, first shock, then anger swept across her face, "You know we don't talk about *Charles,* and how *dare* you bring him up. Do you want to join him in the isolation chamber?" Chuck looked down at his desk and fiddled with his Charles HB#3 pencil, "No." he admitted. "Then let's try this again." she turned to her desk and picked up the clipboard and read through her reading glasses. "Charles?" "Here..." Chuck said. Charles smiled at him, pleased with herself, and continued, "Charles?" "Here." "Charles?" "Here." Chuck ignored the continuation of roll call and scrawled his nickname all over his paper. *Chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck....*

Write a story in which every character's name is Charles, and one Charles has decided s/he likes to be called Chuck. No other Charles has had a nickname before.

The morning sun cut through the receding fog in the woods. As the day warmed, Alan found himself sitting next to the stream he camped by. The water was cool and clear, and he could see fish darting around under the surface. He set out a line and walked back up the hill to his small, earthen home. It had started as a hole in the ground with branches for a roof, but has since become a refined, warm home to him. As he crested the hill, he saw something he'd never expected to see. A woman, a few years younger than him, by his guess. He stared at her, and she made eye contact. She stood still, as if to camouflage herself from a predator. Alan slowly approached his camp, and rolled a new log onto his fire with his foot. He looked down, and for the first time in years noticed what he was wearing. A pair of worn service boots was covered by military issue camouflaged pants. He wore no shirt, his skin bronzed by years of sun exposure. In his home was a heavy jacket, hat, and a pair of gloves. He looked the girl over. She wore relatively new hiking boots, a tattered wind breaker, and black nylon pants. She had a backpack on that Alan thought looked rather empty. As they looked at each other, he realized not a single word had been said. He hadn't spoken to anyone in over a decade. He couldn't think about how to form the sounds for words that he could say in his head. He fumbled with a couple sounds before giving up. Her expression softened and she let out a muffled, "Hi." Her voice was soft on Alan's ears, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a female voice, let alone any voice. He sat down next to his fire, and set a container with water from the stream on it to boil. She took a step closer, Alan nodded and she sat down. They sat quietly in front of the fire for most of the day. The occasional word would be spoken, but for the most part they enjoyed each other's silent company. When the sun began to set, he walked down the hill to the stream. Luck was with him today, there was a large trout hooked on. He took the fish off the line and carried it back to his camp. He filleted the fish, and set it on a hot stone to cook. That night, they both ate like royalty. In the morning, she was gone. When he woke up, he found a small note on a piece of paper next to him. *Thank you for the food. I've been wandering these woods for 15 years, and you're the first person I've ever seen. Maybe we will run into each other one day, and I can feed you. My name is Allison. I hope to hear your voice one day.* Alan began to pack up his camp. It was time for a new life.

Living off the grid for 15 years, and having no contact with the outside world, a hermit runs into another hermit, who has had no contact with the outside world, and has been living off the grid for 15 years.

Dateline: North Korea. North Korean scientists today announced that they have created the world’s first functional time machine, capable of both forward and backward time travel. The lead scientist on the project, Jun Ki Seok, had this to say, “The glory of the state allowed us the technology to create the world first time machine. Kim Jung Un call me personal, order machine made.” The North Korean government offered a press release in which it warned the “Western World to be afraid for [it’s] very existence.” Jon looks up from the paper. “Hey Honey, North Korea perfected time travel! I guess we’re screwed now, eh?” Mary, Jon’s wife, laughs. “That’s even worse than those ballistic missiles of theirs that can almost reach the ocean!” -- Jun Ki Seok looked at the machine much like a man looks at his first child, minutes after the birth. It is clear that he is completely and utterly devoted. “This will change the world. Sway the balance of power. With this machine, we will drive the capitalist government of South Korea into the sea, and liberate our brethren from their clutches.” His comrade, Wook Jin Seung, agreed, staring at the machine with the same reverence. Nearby, a sergeant was haranguing his men, preparing them to go through the portal, into the past. June 25th, 1950 glowed in bright red numerals above the machine’s gate. The machine itself was spectacularly unimpressive. About thirty foot square and 8 feet tall, it was mostly featureless, a dull but somehow amorphous gray. The only notable portions on the machine was a giant lever next to a bluish-gray oval-shaped gate, with a large LED screen on top. Next to the lever sit 8-one digit spinners, like one would find on the lock for a briefcase. It was with these small spinners that the date was set. The giant lever would be pulled to activate the gate, whereupon massive sums of power generated by a nuclear reactor in the basement would channel directly into the machine via a massive trunk line, and a bright emerald green light would pulse out of the gate, too bright to comfortably look at. 30 seconds later, the bright light would disappear, and the machine would be rested for 48 hours, lest…unfortunate things, occur. The machine had been tested, extensively prior to the international announcement. Full-color pictures of ancient wonders, of Egyptian pyramids in construction, of Teutonic knights battling valiantly, of massive dinosaurs stomping gracelessly across Pangea. Despite the evidence brought back by the exploratory teams, the world treated the North Korean announcement with derision. To Jun Ki Seok, that was the final straw. He had always been frustrated by the world not taking his homeland seriously, but his scientist’s mind could see why. But now, when confronted with hard, incontrovertible evidence of North Korean greatness, the world still laughed. And so they would pay. And the first step of that, 150 of North Korea’s most elite troops, armed to the hilt with modern weaponry and armor, were about to step though the time portal to June 25th, 1950. They would give North Korea what was needed to not only push the Americans and the UN back to the Pusan Perimeter, but out to sea. But Kim Jung Un’s plans stopped not at merely winning the Korean War. No, he plotted further than that. He prepared technical teams, full of modern technology, both domestic and foreign, which would jumpstart Korea into the modern age over sixty years before the rest of the world. No army of the world, rooted in the technology of the 1940s and 50s would be able to stand before the might of the Korean army, armed with guided missiles, modern rifles, and helicopters. Kim Jung Un arrived at the complex. The troops, raring at the bit to return to the past and raise their homeland to its proper place in the world, could not help but to cheer. Their Dear Leader would personally pull the lever which would catapult them into the past, into history, the future, their destiny. -- The fighting was intense. To be fair to the American forces, even when fighting against technology from over sixty years in the future, they didn’t surrender. The modern Koreans took casualties, but the Americans took more. And every 48 hours, North Korea of 2014 would send as many troops and supplies into the past as they could. A line of troops stood by the machine. The machine would be activated, and men would rush through, yelling war cries. The passage to the past took 3 seconds. Any in transit when the machine shut down would come though at the next opening, gaunt and insane. But that stopped none of the troops from charging into the machine up until the very instant it closed; they knew their duty…and they did not know of the effects of being trapped in the machine. By the end of 1951, the United States formally surrendered in Korea. By 1960, the Koreans, working with the Chinese, had captured all of Europe. In the final, desperate battles, the Warsaw Pact and NATO forces battled desperately, side-by-side. But their technology, M48 Pattons and T-55 MBTs were simply no match for T-90s and Chinese Type-96s, the technology to build the modern monsters of war having been sent through before the Korean War had even ended. In 1963, the United States was invaded. In the Second World War, Japanese Admiral Yamamato had argued against an invasion of the United States, as there would be a “rifle behind every blade of grass.” This proved to be correct. Despite having technology still almost unbelievable to the Americans, despite having fought against it for months in Europe, the United States did not surrender. The military was defeated within months, not having fully recovered from the thrashing it had received in Europe. The many expatriate military units that were rescued from Europe and brought to the United States fought as hard as they could, knowing that if America fell, there would be no hope for their ever returning home. But it simply wasn’t enough. The decimated remains of the Allied forces dispersed into the hills, armed civilians, and began a guerilla war. They fought for ten years. Tens of thousands of Americans were killed in retaliation attacks. But finally, as all guerilla armies deprived of external support must, the resistance collapsed. The rate of loss of arms, men, and supplies simply couldn’t be kept up with by the small, underground shops of the resistance. The world settled down, controlled by a joint Korean-Chinese government. -- In the present, no one realized that anything was amiss. The continuum of time meant that each change was not a new development, but simply the way it was. A few individuals, however, somehow, could see the changes taking place. But no material detailing things the way they were survived; how could a photograph exist of an event that never occurred? The sensitive individuals were simply chalked up as insane. The past’s takeover of the present continued unabated. -- Jon looks up from the paper. “Hey Honey, Dear Leader is announcing that the food Five-Year Plan has been beaten by 17%. Isn’t that wonderful?” “I knew that projection would get beaten, the State’s farmers and workers are indomitable! Glory to Western Korea!” “Glory to Western Korea!” Edit: Had to remove prompt from the top.

North Korean scientists successfully create time travel but the rest of the world doesn't believe the news report.

Sarah ran her hand over the coarse leather cover of the pyramid clad book. She opened it and smelled its dusty and leathery scent. "Oh my fucking god," she said as she eyed the various illustrations of ancient architecture and mystical beings. She remembered conversations with Jenny about the mystery of the world and how Jenny never had much to say, she always claimed to be agnostic and disinterested. She thought back to all their late night xbox marathons fueled with a mix of mountain dew and sometimes pot and all their philosophical conversations, but never a mention of this. She ran her hand to the back cover and saw Jenny's initials pressed into the leather, burnt in, and fading from age. "That's duplicitous, bitch," she said aloud. Jenny walked into the room holding two cans of diet pepsi. She handed one to Sarah with a smile. Her face went blank when she saw Sarah holding the book. "So... you're some kind of cultist," Sarah accused. Jenny sat down and sighed. "Look, its a family thing. Like a family religion. I got that when I turned 12 from my crazy uncle. What do you want me to do with it? Burn it?" "Or fucking tell me about it! I mean, I've been into this stuff for years! You know that!" "Tell you what exactly? I mean, do I waltz into your home, pick up a bible, and demand you teach me Catholicism," she said impatiently. Sarah sighed, "Its not the same." Jenny stood, "Oh its not? Its some bullshit old men in robes came up with to control people. My bullshit has a more colorful history and aliens. Your bullshit has crusades, witch hunts, and old jews." "Old jews? You're being offensive." "That's what Jesus was, Sarah. An old fucking jew. Probably some rabbi with a lot of anti-establishment ideas that got him in trouble. He didn't do magic. He doesn't listen when you pray. The same way aliens don't run the world. Or lizard bankers. Or whatever. Its just the same powerful white male politicians who run things and as women, we need to realize this, and play their game." Jenny threw her hands in the air and sat. Sarah rolled her eyes. Jenny continued, "Look, its like being a scientologist. Being a member lets you into a certain social circle. Access to that circle gives... benefits. I don't want to piss off my uncle. I know he helps my parents with money now and again." "How opportunist," said Sarah snidely. "Well, is it? I mean, you met your boyfriend at church, and you'll probably marry him. You got that last job through Ashely's mom at church. I really don't think its all so different." Sarah looked away and out the window. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to be accusatory." Jenny sighed, "Its okay. Being part of something non-mainstream is always difficult I think. The stuff other people hear about it is always inaccurate. I didn't mean to snap like I did." "Last year, whats-her-name in study hall asked me how often I protest abortion clinics. I was like what?" "Yeah, like that. The negative and dramatic stuff is concocted by drama queens and the the mentally ill." Jenny paused, "So do you want to really learn about it? I can tell you what I know. Its probably more mild than you're expecting. Its a lot of boring historical stuff that doesn't really match up to real history books. All the paranormal claims are clearly bunk." Sarah smiled, stood up, and turned on the xbox. "Naww, its good. Lets play halo and forget about this. Its all crazy talk, isn't it? I mean, what's life about, really? It should be about good times, friends, love, and laughter." Sarah looked at Jenny. "Agreed," Jenny said with a smile. Jenny laughed, "Yay! Halo to the rescue," as she turned on her controller and high-fived Sarah. "Or do you want to fire up steam and play The Secret World? I have a quality level 6 Illuminati character," she said with a smirk. "Oh you bitch," replied Sarah as she picked multiplayer deathmatch and said, "You're going to pay for that!"

Your best friend is a conspiracy theorist and he just found out you're Illuminati.

‘James! James!’ the man called out as he alighted the E train at Forest Hills/71st Ave, his eyes scanning rapidly for someone. I looked his way from across the platform where I was waiting for the transfer to the F. I didn’t know him. His overcoat was rumpled and his hair blazed the color of the F train’s signature orange circle. Even though it’s hard to look out of place at any Queens subway station, he managed the feat. He ran up the stairs from the E platform shouting a few more times for James. I quickly forgot the man and returned to the article about the mayor’s lavish ball at Gracie Mansion I was reading in the *New Yorker.* The F train was still 6 minutes away. As I was reading the fluff piece about the clams casino NYC’s first lady served, my nose was assaulted by the smell of stale linguisa and sweat. I looked up to see the orange-headed man staring down at me. ‘James! I found you.’ I was about to tell him it must be another James he was looking for when he sat down, closer than he needed to be, on the bench next to me. ‘James,’ he continued, bowling right over my objection, ‘I’m so glad I got you before you got on the F. I just missed you at Kew Gardens when you first got on the train.’ That brought my back up straight and the magazine fell to my lap forgotten. ‘What do you mean you’ve been following me since I got on the train?’ I stared at the man and got my first really good look. He wore glasses taped at both ends. His eyes had narrow pupils that drilled into mine like an MTA Sandhog doing tunnel work. As he spoke I could see remnants of sausage built up along his gumline. ‘James, I missed you at Kew Gardens but I tried to catch you at your apartment on Talbot Street before that. It was imperative I get to you before you go to Manhattan. I’m just here to help.’ The man was breathless at this point with his explanation. I’d had enough. I don’t know who this man was but I was just trying to get to work. I got up to find another spot on the platform, try to lose myself in the crowd. The man’s hand fell to my chest as I started to get up. His arm was strong, holding me in place. ‘James, I told you I’m just here to help. You’ll want my help once you get to work.’ His tone turned stern, ‘Now you’ll get on the F train when it arrives in,’ he looked up at the electronic message board, ‘two minutes. You’ll take the train to Manhattan like you do every day. You’ll get off at Bryant Park like you do every day. You’ll walk to your job at 41 West 42nd Street. 7th floor, I believe.’ He removed his hand from my chest, but I was still paralyzed by this man reciting my daily routine. He reached into a pocket of his overcoat. ‘And when you get to your desk,’ he continued, ‘you will log into your computer. You haven’t changed your password in a while, it’s still *7Yankees!* isn’t it? Of course it is. When you get to your computer, you’ll slide in this thumb drive. Remember, I’m just here to help,’ A small plastic flash drive emerged from his pocket and he dropped it on the cover of the *New Yorker* sitting in my lap. The man got up and walked slowly away his orange hair like a sunset over the Rockaways. I clutched the magazine and stared at the thumb drive. A screeching brought everyone else on the platform to their feet, the F was here. I got on the train to head to work just like I do every day.

A strange man knows a worrying amount about you. He’s here to help.

"So basically, magic," said the bartender. The rest of the villagers murmured in agreement. I had stopped concealing my sighs hours ago. "No. Elec-tri-city." The hardest part about suddenly appearing in the year 1612 is thinking you're going to change the world and then realizing you have no idea how things really work. I had started with the whole bacteria thing and that went nowhere for awhile. I mean, think about it. Yeah, so there's these tiny living things that are so small that you can't see them (but trust me they're there!) that are attacking your body, which by the way is made up of billions of tiny things themselves, and when the bad tiny things get the better of your good tiny things, you get sick, and your body has these specialized tiny things that fight the bad tiny things and if those fighting tiny things win, then you get better. Fuck me, right? I had actually succeeded in introducing pasteurization. I didn't exactly know how to do that either, but I brought the pond water and milk to a boil before cooling it back down ('cause it kills the tiny bad things!). The few people who looked passed my lunatic rantings and committed to trying my stuff were getting less sick from liquid, so I guess the process worked. I had a larger following now and they were listening to me. "How about this," I said. "So the lightning, that we create from... uhm, this lightning creating station, travels through the metal wire that's connected to every home, and is received by this glass ball that has this tiny piece of metal in it that glows from getting hot from the lightning and that's electrical light for you." The villagers looked around at the candles and oil lanterns that lit the bar quite well, gave each other nods that seemed to say "yeah we got this whole 'light' thing down already, stop your lightning harnessing nonsense" and turned back to me. "So basically... magic," said the bartender. "Get me a key," I said over the ensuing rabble. "And a kite. There's a storm tonight and I'll show you exactly what I mean." An old lady answered me. "What's a kite?" "Get me some sticks and string and... uhm... paper? Or cloth? Uhm..." Fuck me, right?

A person with a high school education gets sent back into the 1600s and tries to explain science and technology to the people.

The first code to hit the internet was Infinite Lives and it immediately caused a rash of suicides, car chases, and monumental acts of daring filmed by spectators and uploaded to Youtube. My brother Ness was among the first in Toronto to try and climb the CN Tower with his bare hands, only to fall barely a hundred meters into the ascent. Poor bastard didn't have the Invicibility code yet, and suffered three humiliating weeks of respawning with 10% Health only to die of his injuries again and again, repeating the cycle every fifteen agonizing minutes. By the time Invincibility leaked and he was released from the hospital, the world was chaos and confusion. Most of the internet was shut down, key servers in the States unplugged to prevent DLC Torrents from spreading, but the damage was already done. Thousands flew across the skies, dozens dropping to the pavement from slamming into buildings or going too high and losing oxygen; the Breathing Underwater code was out, but not the No Air Required cheat. I picked my brother up from the hospital in my beige Pontiac Aztec, Anti-Gravity Cheat enabled. Tires spinning, we flew north while I caught him up on the news, barely out of the city when the DLC hit. All of Toronto and another three hundred square miles were overwritten by a Desert Canyon patch that erased eight million lives in the blink of an eye. Ness was horrified but I took it in stride. "That's maybe the hundredth city this week," I informed him. "Everyone will respawn eventually. Paris DLCs were downloaded on top of ten cities in India, complete with duplicate Parisians, and there's a new continent in the middle of the Pacific that's an exact duplicate of Germany. Nobody is claiming responsibility for anything, but the President said it was Anonymous Terrorists. Then D.C. got nuked, redownloaded by Government Mods, and nuked again; I'd stay away from the whole East Coast if I were you." "I need more codes," Ness grumbled, eyeing the thousand-foot-high Viking stomping across the horizon. "It's not fair that everyone else has more than me." I couldn't help but laugh. "Everyone has Infinite Money and it's made money obsolete; I tried buying a yacht last week and found out it was easier to steal one. It's not about having as many cheats as possible, it's about having the best ones. Here, take my Cheat Code list, pick and choose which ones you want." "You have a yacht and you picked me up in an Aztec?" "...It took too many Hadokens in a battle above Lake Eerie," I confessed. "It was shielded from physical attacks but not magical ones. Lesson learned, right?" "So where are we headed?" he wondered, studying my list of codes. "Greenland. I found a collective that's building a few thousand spaceships, we're heading off planet ASAP, I got us spots on the USS Enterprise. Well, one of the Enterprises anyways. The fewer people are around us, the safer we'll be." Below us the landscape shimmered and changed from a snowy forest into a tropical archipeligo, twenty thousand islands running to every horizon, each one ringed by sublime beaches. "Will there even be a Greenland by the time we get there?" Ness asked, entering the Weapons Pack 2 code. Twenty loaded guns spawn into the air (and through my windshield) around us, dropping on the dashboard, our laps, and the backseat. "Most of Greenland is being run by Minecrafters, so they've put up a good defense. But there's no way of knowing until we get there." Punching in the code for Invisibility, Ness suddenly vanished, his voice echoing from the open air as a gun floated off the floor to point straight at me. "Remember that time you slept with my ex-girlfriend Mandy?" There's no room for hesitation anymore, and no allowances for inconvenience. I hit a button on the steering wheel and activate the ejection seat, flinging Ness from the van to leave him falling in my wake. I'm glad he can't fly yet and disappointed that he's chosen petty revenge, but so be it. I'm a Level 70 Rogue now, and it's beneath me to take shit from a Level 2 n00b, even if he is my brother. If all goes according to plan, I'll be wearing a Master Chief skin and flying past the moon before nightfall, my trusty PokeDragon at my hip ready to unleash hell at the slightest provocation. This is how the world ends, not with a wimper or a bang, but in a mass PvP orgy. I just hope I can make it to Greenland in time.

Scientists discover that we live inside of a computer simulation. They also discover DLC and cheat codes.

Most people say they could never tell you what makes them love someone. I was never most people. And her? Even less. It was the smile. It was always bright, always warm, always there. It was something that was more than a mere showing of teeth. It was what made her entire face light up and shine. It was what led me through the dark so many times. Through sickness, through death, through grieving, it was there. That smile made even her already bright eyes warm embers that I could never help but shiver against. It was the look that melted every part of me, opened me up to every word she whispered in my ear. With that smile, she became to me a perfect sculpture, porcelain, a goddess. It became my obsession, my drive, my life to see that smile. To know it was just for me, caused by my simply being, that was what made me love her. It was seeing her face so joyed by my actions that drove me. It drove me to work, to succeed, to live. To me, it was all things. And then it was gone. So suddenly as I felt it appear, those smiles were gone. Replaced by tears, shouting, and a dead look. It was a look that destroyed me twice over. It was the look that held no joy, no warmth, no love. It was directed at me and solely at me. I had caused it, I had failed her. She was the same, she was porcelain, she was love. I was not. And like that, out of my life she went. I was lost. All those drives were gone. Replaced by a drive to drink, to forget, to fade. To me, it was the only thing. The true hurt though, the greatest pain, was not her being gone. It was something far more simple. It was spring. It was sunny. She wore her floral dress. He held her gently as they walked. And there that smile was. Not for me, not a sign of love to me, not a thing to keep me warm. It was for another. She was porcelain, I was not. She had another. I was no longer what she loved. Was I ever what she loved? Was that smile ever truly meant for me? Was I ever anything to her? All of me. She had taken all of me. And I was gone.

She was the most exquisite love you've ever had -and her betrayal of you the most intricate and damaging.

Growing up, my mother described it to me as the constant feeling of being pushed, by something you can't see, in every direction. I had never experienced gravity in my life. You see, my parents were the only two astronauts assigned to the Space Station Helios at the time of the Flash. Back in 2028 in the middle of a rebuild operation my mother had noticed a blanket of light cover the earth, that's how she described it anyways, and just as soon as it came it was gone. After that there were no communications from earth and the systems on the station appeared fine so they waited. They waited for someone, anyone to come for them, but they never did. Now, 18 years later and the computer systems are failing, one by one. My father told me that the only way we can survive is to attempt a crash landing and hope that the on board safeties will be able to hold us. As we plummeted downward I began to feel.....tight? I guess tight is the best word I could use to describe it. It felt as though I was trying to be squished into a space that I just couldn't fit. I held my parents hands, anxiously awaiting the inevitable. We crashed landed in a forest. I had seen pictures of trees growing up, but being right next to one in person, they felt so....powerful. They towered over me. After the initial shock and awe I began to notice the little things, new flavors in the air, new smells, the difference of seeing the sun without a UV Shield, and the pressure. It was constant but not uncomfortable, and it was all around me. This must be gravity, I thought. Mother did her best to explain it to me and she did well, but I think she got one thing wrong. It didn't feel like I was being pushed, it felt like I was being embraced. To me, it felt like the earth was hanging on. That it didn't want to let me go.

A child born and raised on a space station experiences gravity for the first time.

*That won't do.* Jim thought long and hard about where his son would go in life. He thought about his childhood, his friends, his experiences in school. He thought about his love life, the women he would meet, the fun he would have. He thought about his career and his future family, the children he would father and the kind of father he would be. He thought about the pain and suffering that he could be responsible for preventing. He erased his most recent entry. *That's not going to work either.* Jim was having writer's block of the most dire sort: he could not figure out how his son's life would go. Still, there had to be a way; a way to avoid the terror of the unknown and the horrors that which life could bring. He thought long and hard about his own life. ~ "I can't stay here anymore, Jim," said Mary. "This isn't the life I want." "Mary...," Jim took a deep breath. "Y-you can't do this. Our boy is in the other room sleeping. This is our home. This is the life we made together." Mary looked toward the doorway to their son's room, her face scrunching up, trying to hold back tears. "I'm sorry Jim, but he'll be better off without me. And this disgusting apartment is hardly what I would call home. I'm sorry but I have to go." Jim reached out for her hand and began to beg. "Mary please. You can't go. You can't do this to me, to us. I can't do this alone, I need you." She looked at him one last time. Her eyes said "I loved you," but her voice did not. She left and never came back. ~ "Please, I don't have any more money. My son is hungry and I need to get him something to eat. If you would just leave a little for-" "Fuck off," said the bearded man. He held his knife closer to Jim as he sorted through his wallet with one hand. "It's only fifty dollars, pal. Hardly worth my time, but I'll make do." "No, please, you don't understand, my s-" The bearded man punched Jim hard in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He fell to the ground, dazed, as he watched the man run off with the only money he had that week. ~ *There must be something I could write. Maybe if he doesn't...no that won't work either.* Jim was stuck. He wanted the best life for his son, but he wanted to make sure it was perfect. He had to spare him of the pain and suffering that his son would have. That's when he decided. He would give his son the best childhood friends; kids that would look up to him and treat him as a leader. He would give him the very best education, for his son would be one of the most intelligent men alive. He would become the CEO of one of the largest corporations in the world, and he would be one of the richest men on the planet. He would have anything and everything he could desire. This was the life Jim chose for his son, and it would be the life of a king. Smiling, Jim set pen to paper and wrote and wrote and wrote... ~ Carson sipped on a glass of fine wine as he roamed his study looking at photos he had propped up all around the room. It was a twelve hundred dollar bottle, but he couldn't help but feel like it tasted the same as a local liquor store. For some reason he enjoyed it, but he hadn't the faintest idea why. He moved from photo to photo. One was of him and a great leader from the middle-east. Another had him shaking hands with the president. All of the photos depicted him with a partner in business or a person of power, but the photo he kept on his desk was most important to him. It was of himself and his father, Jim, from several Christmases ago; the last Christmas they would have together before he passed away. Carson looked intently at the photo. He thought about the life he had and how his father influenced it. Carson idolized the struggles his father had to overcome. He was proud of him, and wished that he could become half the man his father was. He thought about the good memories, the dreams he built, the world he helped create. Still, something nagged at Carson. Something just wasn't right, but he couldn't figure it out. He tossed the thought into the back of his head like he normally did when he had that feeling. Finally, he smiled at the photo one last time before muttering to himself, "I love you, dad." And though he didn't want to, he took a sip of his wine and headed off to bed.

A father gets to write his childs' destiny and life. He is in a dilemma, from his horrible life experience, he knows how bad life can suck, but he knows it has its importance too. what does he do? how does he come to the conclusion?

"Tell me, Mr. Curondo, do you think that the means justify the end?" Mr. Curondo, tanned, well-muscled, shirtless, and strapped to a tilted surgeon's table replied with his usual bravado. The laser was slowly sliding between his legs. "Evil is evil Raen. In the end, good always triumphs." The black cloaked figure replied in his gravelly voice whilst initializing his doomsday device, "What is good, what is evil? They are labels, like hero and villain. You think you know which of us plays our part. What of your masters? What of your purported Philosopher Kings? Are they truly wiser? Do they know best?" The laser inched closer, but Curondo did not flinch. "Who could know better? They've lived hundreds of years, they've outlasted nations. We have not seen a war in a hundred years, nor famine in fifty." "What of the Tithe then? What of the children they kill to maintain their peace? Is that good?" The sequence was initialized. In minutes, the Philosopher Kings would be burned to the ground, their black magic with them. Humanity would be free once more. Free to war, to learn from mistakes, to accept responsibility for itself. "Sacrifices must be made." With that, Mr. Curondo snapped the lock his fingers had been quietly worrying at. He spun off the table and landed with his fingers on Raen's throat. "So then, you condemn us to peaceful slavery?" asked Raen. Curondo crushed Raen's pale throat for answer. The villain won. Anarchy was aborted. Prosperity and status quo were maintained.

The villain defeats the hero but the world turns out to be a better place because of his twisted views.

10... I opened my eyes to see myself standing in front of the Board of Supervisors for MindTree Inc. These businessmen were considering a partnership with my company, and my job was to convince them. I knew winning them over would catapult me up the corporate ladder and make me thousands. I was preparing that presentation for months. I shoved the CEO out of my way and sprinted out the door. 9... I found my car in the parking lot and threw myself inside. I spent countless hours and money refurbishing that Ford Escort. It was my pride and joy. I crushed the mirror against the car next to me as I sped away. 8... Sweat formed across my back and stained my precious new sport coat I had bought just for the meeting. 7... I raced through every red light without a moments hesitation. The easiest decision of my life. 6... I fumbled with my cell phone and called her. That phone had everything I needed on it. My documents, emails, pictures. That phone was a part of me. “Hello?” 5... “Jack?” “I’ve been a terrible husband and father. You deserved better. I’m so sorry. I love you.” Her reply muffled in the speaker as I threw the phone towards the back of the car. 4... I swerved in and out of traffic. 3... Would I make it? 2... 1... I screeched to a halt in the driveway. I bolted out the car and flew through the front door. “Kennedy?” “Yeah daddy?” She was home from school. I held onto her for life. 0. I saw the explosive cloud of light rush from outside the window and was immediately blinded. A boom shattered the window and the heat intensified. I held tighter.

Second Chance. (Contest)

The second shelf. That damned second shelf. Every morning, and every night, I put my toothbrush on the first shelf. And every day, when I reach for it, it's on the second shelf. It was maddening. Who was moving it? Who was tormenting me?! I didn't deserve this. And then, one day, I saw him do it. He looked just like me. He was living in the mirror behind the sink, disguised as my reflection. Only he wasn't my reflection. He was a bastard. He was the cause for my stress. For my therapy sessions I cut off, for my pills I stopped taking. He was the cause. One day, I put my brush on the shelf and waited. I waited a safe distance from the mirror, until I felt it was time, and I went to investigate. Like clockwork, he appeared. He moved my toothbrush to the second shelf again! I just became so...mad! I punched him, and he shattered. Or rather, the mirror shattered. He was still in the shards. But as I picked one up, I saw him in another. I saw the shard, *my* special shard, next to him, in *his* hand! No, not my toothbrush! I still controlled the shard. It was mine, not his! And so I dug. I dug into his neck. And dug and dug. And I woke up here. Everyone here is so nice. They understand how dangerous he is. They showed me a picture of him. They've put him in a special jacket so he can't move his arms.

A man is driven to madness by his toothbrush.

Chuck wandered through the countryside estate he most recently found himself in, the hallways and rooms silent and empty, abandoned and forgotten. It felt as if this place had been long ignored, and yet there was no dust, no sign of neglect. How many days it had been since someone else had walked these halls? Had the days turned into months? Did those words still have any meaning? There hadn't even been a day since the big stop, not a real one, anyways. The sun remained sitting in the same spot it had been, shining down onto the one poor soul who could still be warmed by it. Perhaps permanent day was better than everlasting night, but Chuck wasn't sure. There was something unsettling about the brightly lit cities now turned into eerie art shows filled with sculptures stopped while living normal lives. Chuck wondered if it would have been better if the big stop happened at night, at least then he wouldn't have had to see as much, to feel as much regret. Chuck had been mid-conversation when the world stopped. At first, he thought his friend had been playing some strange joke, but soon bemusement turned into genuine concern, and when Chuck realized the extent of the catastrophe, into pure terror. For a while, terror was all there had been, but those first few moments had been nothing compared to what had followed. For some time, Chuck had tried to reverse what had happened, dragging several people into his workshop, trying to think of ways to revive them. He still remembered how they felt, remembered how strange it was that they were still warm to the touch, that they still felt alive. But after one failed experiment after another, he came to accept that they were not, that the universe had decided to end, not with a bang, but with silence. And the realization that came next was the worst of all. The universe had ended without him. Only Chuck had been cursed with this fate, the fate of living alone in a world that was as alien as any Chuck had ever seen in a film or read about in a book. For some time after, that despair was all there had been for him. He would have given anything to be with his friends and family, to be frozen and ended like everyone else. Chuck had considered suicide, but knew that no matter his circumstance, he couldn't find the courage to kill himself, wasn't even sure if he wanted to. What would be the point of it? But then again, what was his reason for living? It took a while before Chuck found one. But while wandering the countryside he did. The sun perfectly framed this mansion and the grounds, and a family sat frozen around a pristine picnic table. A mother, a father, a little girl, and a little boy. Chuck sat beside them and saw in their silent faces the embodiment of joy and happiness. He saw that for these people, life had reached the best point it ever would. He looked around and saw the world not for what he had lost, but what it had been. The happy family, the beautiful day, and the mansion that sat behind them. These things were holy. And Chuck thought back on what he had seen in the city, the less than savory samples of life and crime which he had seen. Those things, too, were sacred. Echoes of the world that had been, of the people that had lived, of the times that were no more. Chuck finally realized why he was here, how he could keep on living until the universe finally decided to spare him. Without Chuck, all of what had been would be lost, the beauty of both good and evil would be gone forever with no one to appreciate it. Chuck owed it to everyone and everything. He would be the one that watched, the one that remembered. Though the universe had ended, through Chuck it would live on.

Time freezes for all but one man, and does not restart. What does he do?

The words which seemed a farce were printed on clean, neat stationary that somehow shimmered with an ephemeral glow, lending credence to the preposterous words written on it. There's no way I could describe the message written on that letter, except maybe as impossible. But just as impossible had been my insane survival on the mountain some time ago. I could still feel the crushing wall of snow knock me over, could still see the light fade away as my entire view was shrouded in the darkness caused by the onslaught of cold. I could remember being forced into the deep crevice and buried alive in the heavy snow, and the only thing I could hear was the muffled roar of icy death. But by some miracle, I had survived. Not even a scratch on me. The snow had parted ways, leaving me with a clear sight of the way out. More than that, when the avalanche's wrath settled, I was left with a solid ramp of snow to lead me up and out of danger. I should have known there's no such thing as miracles. I read the words on the letter another time, and let them sink in. I would have thought it a joke, if I hadn't seen what I saw on that mountain, hadn't walked away from certain death. But reading this letter, I knew it was true. It was a letter from God, and it went like this: >Dear Chris Huntings, >We hope this letter finds you well. We are led to believe that the events you survived on January 25th were what most people would describe as miraculous. Indeed, we too find it surprising that you survived such an event. >As a result, an internal audit was launched to verify the validity of your claim, and we have come to the conclusion that no miracle should have been awarded to you at this time. We apologize for the inconvenience, and assure you that the angel responsible for your claim has had their position terminated. We hope this brings you some comfort. >Heaven, Inc. hereby requests your assistance in the following matter. As you have been erroneously awarded a miracle, please report to the place of said miracle within thirty (30) business days, so the error can be corrected. As a favor to you, our client, and as an apology for making the mistake, Heaven, Inc. will ensure optimal skiing conditions so that your death is at least a pleasurable one. >Questions and concerns can be forwarded to our customer support office via prayer and/or ritualistic sacrifice. Our customer service representatives would be happy to help you one day a week, most weeks of the year, plus appropriate holidays. > Best Regards, > *God* > CEO, Heaven, Inc. > A Parent Company to subsidiary Hell Co. I put the letter down, after reading it once more. It was all so surreal. Looking out of the window, I saw that it was snowing. . **[Part 2->](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1x9tj4/wp_the_day_after_a_nearfatal_accident_you_receive/cf9iuh7)** **[Part 3->>](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1x9tj4/wp_the_day_after_a_nearfatal_accident_you_receive/cf9nyz0)**

The day after a near-fatal accident you receive a letter from God, saying it was just an administration error, and he asks you politely to commit suicide within 30 days.

Commander Thompson sighed as she put down her binoculars. Flight engineer Wei Ping took them from her and carefully sat down on the martian soil, his helmet light illuminating the surrounding area where she crouched. "Houston, Jane here, we have a protocol 7 event I think," she said into her mic. Wei began videotaping. "Houston here, whatcha got," a man asked as the comm lights on their suits went red. "We've got a person here. Vintage spacesuit. Definitely Russian. He... no.. she is coming towards us. I can't make out a face." Jane looked at the woman again. Her spacesuit was a mesh of dozens of emergency patches and the once vibrant red plastic was faded to a pale pink. She walked with a limp and slowly. Her hand kept wiping dust away from her visor, the automated dust wiper long broken. "Holy shit," said Wei. "That's a cosmonaut!" Jane spoke to Earth as Wei watched her lips move. "Guess my pay grade is too low for this conversation," he said to himself. He sat back into the buggy and watched the cosmonaut walk towards them from a mile out. Jane walked over to the buggy and pulled something out of a sealed compartment. "What is that," Wei said, shocked. "Is that a... gyrojet pistol? Commander, with all due respect, that's a weapon. We're not allowed to have those." Jane shrugged, "Command wants me armed. Trust me, I don't want to use this. Can you get her on the radio?" "Think so. Just don't point that thing anywhere near me," he said with a smile. The radio crackled, "Hello, American ship. I am Valentina Merokosha. I am cosmonaut. Supplies are very low. Please follow to base." "Wait, when did you land? What supplies," asked Jane. The radio only gave static as they watched her turn around and walk away. A moment later she turned in front of a boulder and disappeared. Wei shrugged. "Okay, so we follow?" He watched Jane argue with NASA for several minutes. He saw her hit a button on her chest and his radio came alive, "Sorry NASA, you're breaking up. We'll try again in a few." "Fuck it, lets go," she said as she joined him in the buggy. "We'll patrol the area for a bit. I don't see her anymore." "Err, is that what they told us to do," asked Wei as he put the buggy in gear and drove. "Not really," smiled Jane. "They also didn't tell me to do this," she said as she put the pistol back into its compartment. Wei laughed, "I just remembered my training on this buggy. That compartment was for spare transmission fluid. Did they really expect us to change tranny fluid on Mars? Like we're some interstellar Jiffy Lube? I should have guessed." Jane chuckled. "Wait, see that," she asked. "Yeah, I'll pull close to it." They stepped out of the buggy and stared at the piles of wreckage at their feet. "I think we just discovered the lost cosmonauts of legend. Guess it was a failed Mars mission," she said. "I don't see how anyone could have survived this," said Wei. Wei kicked at the metal debris. He bent over and revealed parts of a human skeleton in a spacesuit. He pulled at the spacesuit. He illuminated its face with his headlamp. A skull with long black hair looked back at him. He illuminated its chest and read the nameplate outloud, "V. Merokosha." He shuddered. "A one woman mission to Mars. How... lonely," Jane said looking away. "I guess she wanted someone to find her." Wei shut off his headlamp and looked at Jane, "Someone finally did." They sat silently in the buggy for a short while. Jane's tears fogged up her helmet. "So lonely, so lonely," she said breaking the silence. Wei took her hand and smiled at her. "Its okay, we found her. We'll tell people about her and she'll find peace." He then closed his eyes and began quietly chanting a Buddhist prayer. "Yes... yes, we will," she said and began to radio Valentina's story back to Earth.

American Astronauts finally land on Mars, only to encounter a fully self-sustaining Soviet colony.

Jon stared at the digital clock on his bedside. *23:59* it told him, the digits flickering gently in the dark of his room, the colon between the two numbers dancing its rhythm. "Tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock," he muttered, chuckling gently to himself, recalling the words his mother always used to say. It was all she *could* say, before she passed away thirty-seven years ago. The Alzheimer's had really hit her hard, coupled with the slight hint of autism in her. He wondered if it would happen to him. It seemed unlikely, he had already gone mad years ago. It just so happened that his memory had stayed with him. *00:00* it whispered. "Happy Birthday to me," grinned Jon, raising the whisky to his lips. Ninety years old. He really had done well. The liquor burned pleasantly in his throat as he swallowed. Like him, it had aged pretty damn well. The seventy years it had spent in his cellar had served it brilliantly. By far his favourite twentieth birthday present. "*Happy birthday, you sweet bastard*," said the faded label on the back of the bottle. Jon gave a hearty smile, he was looking forward to seeing Finn. Jon stood up from the plush leather chair, and stepped past his grand, four-poster bed. The soft carpet felt glorious beneath his feet. The whisky bottle in his right hand, he pulled open the huge oak door that marked the entrance to his quarters, and stepped out into the hallway. He fumbled for the heavy golden light switch, and flicked it down. The large glass chandeliers illuminated, revealing the vast corridor before him. Portraits of old men long passed hung on the wall, staring down on him. The marble floor stretched hugely towards a grand wooden staircase. Grinning from ear to ear, he walked, his velvet dressing grown soaking up the warmth from the gorgeous underfloor heating. He trotted down the stairs, giggling lightly. This was going to be fun. More portraits loomed over him as he descended. In his mind, they too were grinning, anticipating his next step. He moved onwards and onwards, finally touching down on the ground floor. He darted forwards, dancing through a grand stone archway. Laughing louder now, he leapt onto the red leather sofa, beaming at the flames waltzing in the fire place. He loved the way that they brushed so gently against each other. Finally, his laughter died down. His smirk dampening, he drifted back into the sofa, setting the whisky down on the glass table beside him, taking another sip from his glass. This was *bliss*. Smiling gently, eyes closed, he listened with euphoria to the footsteps crunching down the gravel path outside. As the noise got closer and closer, he got nothing but happier and happier. The footsteps left their crunchy state and became suddenly more firm and solid as they crept onto the porch outside, followed by a light tap on the door. "Come on in Finn, it's open!" The door slowly creaked open, the warm summer air creeping inside with the visitor. Eyes still closed, he smiled happily as the footsteps entered the room. "Jon?" "Good morning Finn!" beamed Jon, sitting forward in his chair. He looked Finn up and down, casually taking note of every detail, from the grey in his hair to the laces on his boots, from the gun in his hand to the moustache that resided under his nose. "You seem oddly... relaxed. To be honest I was expecting you to be hiding, judging by the fact that I'm about to take all this away from you," Finn explained. "Oh that is an outrageous statement indeed!" chuckled Jon. "You really think I'm going to give you all of this?" "I believe that is the case", uttered Finn. "I see you stuck to my promise", he said, glancing at the whisky on the table. "Oh I did! I always keep my promises!" "Then..." asked Finn, "why aren't you trying to kill me? Remember, seventy years ago today? Our deal? If we both make it past the age of ninety the man who kills the other gets their inheritance, surely your remember old man?" "Oh yes I do! I remember that fully!" he grinned, pulling out his .44 Magnum from under his dressing gown. "You sweet bastard!" laughed Finn. "I was starting to worry that you had lost it!" Jon laughed in a friendly way. "Oh Finn... you see, that's where you're wrong! I knew you were going to kill me, there was no fighting that! Me? I'm just a rich boy, raised by a rich family. You're a soldier, you know how to kill! I'd never stand a chance! It really appears that I remember our agreement more than you do, friend! *The man who kills the other gains his inheritance*!" "Exactly as I recall it Jon!" "You see Finn, I know I'm going to die today. There's no changing that. What I do have control over however, is who gets the inheritance!" "No... you're not saying that...", whispered Finn, raising his weapon to Jon. "Oh yes I am. I am saying *that* indeed, Mr Finn old boy." Finn fired, the bang of the gun echoing through the mansion. Only it wasn't Finn' gun that had gone off. And it certainly wasn't Finn that had been hit.

Two young men agree that if both of them make it past 90 they will try to assassinate the other to gain each other's inheritance.

It began millenia ago. How many I have long forgotten. It is interesting, really. When people think of immortality they think that they will simply live to be able to do anything they want – to experience everything and achieve a form of completeness. Yet, how many mere mortals remember anything that happened in their youngest years? Well, my first couples of thousand years WERE my youngest years. And I remember nothing. Only the Genie. Only my burning wish to live long enough to experience it all. I have a picture. It shows me with my arm around a woman. I look very in love. That is all I have that is more than a couple of decades old. At one point a government erased all the data I had gathered, thinking I was too dangerous, and the following government kept up that practice. That too, of course, was many millennia ago. Governments are history. But I never really started collecting data again – why should I? Nothing has been fun or meaningful for as long as I remember. For the last couple of years I have only had the old man. He was the last alive, and I knew that he too, would die. He is dead now. I am not even sad. Never knew his name anyways. Mortals really don't matter much to me. How could they? They live for only a blink. I am eternal. I might even be a god. If all gods are like me, I wonder why they are prayed to. We are nothing special.

A genie granted you immortality many ages ago. The last human other than yourself has just died out. What do you do?

**Look out! The descriptions are graphic!** "Aw, man!" Zev says. "You know when you cut the head off and blood squirts out and hits the ceiling? Isn't that awesome? It's like a fountain!" The other people sitting in the circle nod affirmatively. A woman, one of the few there, leans forwards in interest. "That's actually a real thing then?" she inquires. "I normally burn my victims houses to the ground, so I wouldn't know." A large man a few chairs down snorts. "Oh, you and your husbands, Ella," he says, "You should probably branch out. Aren't the FBI getting interested about all eleven of your husbands dying after taking out life insurance?" Ella huffs. "Screw them. Cops are useless. But that's a good idea. It's just hard to make it look like an accident, you know?" Another man, an average looking one, turns to look at Ella. "Speak for yourself, Sweetpea. I done fifty-two and the cops haven't even realized that it's all one person, they're so different!" Zev stands up, waving his hands. "Come on guys, settle down. We have to keep this under an hour, remember?" Ella rolls her eyes and acquiesces, as do the others. Zev waits for a second in case anyone wants to say anything, but no one volunteers. He continues. "Right. Decapitation. You have to be a bit careful with this one, cause those arteries in the neck are like fucking fire hoses." A woman dressed entirely in hot pink guffaws. "You fucked a fire hose, Zev? That's a new one. Are you going for a record of 'most objects fucked'? Cause it sure seems like it." Zev turns bright red. "What I do and do not have sex with is none of your business, Dolores. And besides, weren't you complaining about how hard it is to find men with gigantic dicks the other day?" Dolores turns beat red, and apparently sensing an imminent explosion, Zev steamrolls over her. "Moving on. Acid!" The average looking man grins. "It's awesome! The best way to hide the body is if there is no body. You can even dump it in the river when you're done!" A tall, skinny skinhead jumps in. "Ah-ha, so it's YOU who's been poisoning one of Boston's water systems! I should let you know that it's getting very annoying, no one pays attention to me anymore even if it's a triple sex murder." He looks like he's trying not to cry. There's a long silence, and then someone ventures tentatively: "How did you do a triple sex murder? Find a threesome going on and kill them all?" "Yep, and I even nailed their heads to the wall when I was done! No one appreciates me any more." The skinhead sniffs miserably. "We appreciate you, dude," A handsome oriental man says. "I don't think anyone's even considered a triple sex murder before." The skinhead brightens. "Really?" The group nods, glancing at each other in a way that says 'humour the crazy person'. Zev takes a look at his watch, and stands up. "OK, guys, we're out of time for today. Next session's same time and place, but a wednesday. Everybody good?" They nod and stand, talking to each other as they walk out. Zev shuts the door behind them. He's going to love trying their techniques on them.

You are a serial killer in a support group full of other serial killers discussing each other's "problem".

-038 "Son-of-a-bitch," Waldo shouted, tripping over something outside his door. He sprawled, but caught himself, tucking his shoulder and using his forward momentum to roll himself across the hall and back to his feet. He came up wary and looking to run. His eyes slicing left and right in search of danger. What he found was a crushed gift box. He worked the hall, inching back toward his door; a white ape in a red and white turtle neck sweater. He scampered the last few feet, scooped up the package and darted back into his room, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the door, slipping his hand to the waist band of his pants to grasp for the firearm that was no longer there. Of course it wasn't there. It was Friday night. It was his night off. His night to unwind. He'd been granted a little rest and relaxation tonight before having to head back into the field. He listened at the door, searching for proof he was being hunted, but there was no one there. Content he was a lone, he stepped back to investigate the package outside his door. It was a cheap dollar store wrapping paper. The bow was a stick on. He looked around the seams for tampering and checked the bow for a wire, but it was just what it appeared to be--a poorly wrapped gift. He pulled out a folder from his pocket and flicked open the six inch blade and cut through the paper, peeling if off carefully. Under it was a simple brown box with a lid. He probed the lids edges with the tip of his knife, but there was nothing. The box didn't seem to be a bomb of any sort. "Ha ha." Waldo laughed. It not being a bomb was a surprise. He'd been hunted by all kinds of spies. Agent Black and Agent White were constantly leaving traps for him and bombs and using elaborate disguises. If it wasn't for their hatred for each other, Waldo might have been dead long ago. Thankfully, their agencies almost always sent them on the same missions, and he'd been able to escape them time and time again because their cold war attacks on each other. Why they wore plague masks with their protruding beaks was beyond Waldo's understanding, but the long beak-shaped gas masks had become a dreadful thing to see. Seeing the spy verses spy games of cat and mouse had become Waldo's guilty pleasure. As long as they were hunting each other, he was safe. Waldo was no hero. He didn't like guns and suspected that if he slowed down, one would find him. He tried not to carry a gun. He tried to take only jobs he with low risk. He lived and learned. The big jobs were a death sentence. If he needed proof of this, all he had to do was look at Carmen. Carmen Sandiego had pulled the big heist. She was a sorcerer in the spy game. She could take anything and loved leaving taunting clues, but where in the world is Carmen Sandiego now? In a swamp somewhere feeding alligators. No one is ever finding her again. It was why Waldo tried to become invisible, blending in. His was a life of the chameleon. He lifted the lid off the box, and swore. He lifted the dark 9 mm handgun from the box. The gun oil wafted up to his nose. It was familiar. He hefted the gun and cursed again. He could tell by the weight that the clip was full. Beneath it was a manila envelope. Inside that was a dossier. In that were dozens and dozens of photographs of the same red and white turtle neck and black-rimmed glasses. Someone had found Waldo. He picked up the paper and found the card attached to the bow; Room 609. He looked slowly toward the door. It was the room across the hall. They left the package in front of the wrong door. It wasn't meant for him. It was meant for his neighbor. He flipped through the surveillance photos of him. If they hadn't circled his face in each one of them, he wouldn't have been able to find himself and he was the one attending the peppermint enthisiast gatherings. Where else would he blend in. He stopped. The last page was hand bill with his face on it and price underneath. Waldo laughed. The man wasn't an assassin. He was a bounty hunter. He slipped across the hall with the gun back in the box and the dossier inside. *They didn't know his neighbor was out of the business. How could they?* He knocked on the door and after lengthy wait, his neighbor opened it. "Hello?" The myopic old man greeted in a pleasant voice that reminded Waldo of a squeaky screen door. His jolly face and bulbous nose was a relief to see. Once upon a time, he had been one of the greatest bounty hunters the world had ever seen and Waldo knew this. But now, he was old, endearing, and nearly blind. "Hello, Mr. Magoo. They delivered a package to my door by accident." Waldo told him, handing over the opened box. Mr. Magoo blinked and looked inside then up at Waldo and smiled a pleasant smile. "They do that sometimes. They want me to find anyone notable this time?" Waldo shrugged. "Me." He replied. Mr. Magoo laughed. "Maybe after our beer and a short nap, me boy." The old man laughed, dropping the box in the hall closet atop a mound of similar boxes. Each filled with a dossier and an untraceable gun. "Hurry, me boy. Game of Thrones is about to start. He shuffled down the hall, and Waldo followed after, smiling warmly. It wasn't ever spy that got to drink beer with a legend.

You step outside your apartment to find a package containing a loaded gun and information about a person. The package was meant for your neighbor of six years who is apparently a bounty hunter. You were just headed to his place for your usual Friday night beers.

She was like the girl next door, if you lived next door to a whorehouse. Long thin legs that went up to Heaven, and skinny arms covered in discount tattoos. She held herself with pride, this little girl in a woman's body. She didn't let nobody fuck with her, that one. I'd watch her through my screen door, while she laid out in the sun with that fucking bikini on. Jesus Christ, that bikini. Why in the Hell she let herself go out in that animal print abomination, I would never know. I would watch her come home with different guys, all in fucking hip-hopper sweatshirts and gangbanger bandannas. Sometimes a girl would be with them and I'd watch the shadows fuck with smoke rollin' out of the window. The girl had taste in other women, at least. They'd look clean as a whistle with platinum hair and goddamn yoga pants. Nobody'd sleep over. She had a rule about that. She'd always sleep alone cause she *knew* you can't trust nobody while you sleep. Tough little girl. She knew I was watching her. She would walk out and raise that skinny little arm and flip me the bird. Peelin' out in her tricked out Saturn. Like you can make that POS look good. She wouldn't even look at me. Her own Dad. I moved in next door to keep a good eye on her and she wouldn't even look at me. Ungrateful piece of ass. I'll always find her. She's my little girl, and she's mine.

"She was like the girl next door, if you lived next door to a whorehouse."

I've always believed I was a good person. I couldn't really go on thinking that after I got up to the pearly gates, large as life and twice as real, and they didn't open for me. "Hello?" I called out, a little nervous but rationalising that it was probably just some kind of mistake. Or maybe Saint Peter was on his lunch break. Something like that. Right? "Hey there, dude." I turned around and there he was, tall and kinda grubby. He looked like he'd just waded out of the ocean in southern Australia, and all he was missing was his surfboard. Curly blonde hair stuck away from his head, a Heath Ledger-like smile lighting up his face. "I'm Pete. Sit down with me, why don't you?" He gestures to a particularly fluffy bit of cloud. I perch, he lounges, then hands me a spliff. I get high with Saint Peter. "So talk me through it man." "Why aren't the gates open?" "Chill, we'll get to that later. I just want to hear about your life." He folds his hands behind his head and lies back like he's completely relaxed. "Er... well, I don't know. It wasn't all that." It's a sad thing to say about your own life, but it's true. "I followed the rules. I got married. I had kids, a job, a house." "Sounds good, dude. You enjoy it?" "Yeah, I guess so. It was good. I liked things how they were." "Sin at all?" "Depends what you mean by sin. I was good. I never did anything to hurt anyone." "Yeah, you were a chill dude, dude." It's not really how I imagined Saint Peter. Next thing you're going to tell me that Jesus is some kind of organic food loving hippy with a passion for potpourri and incense. "So do I get in?" "It doesn't really work like that." "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, the buzz wearing off "Well, dude. It's not enough to not do anything bad. You have to actively do something good. There's a super rad poem about it too, if I could just remember it." "What happens now?" I'm afraid. "Whatever you believe happens now." Heaven is gone. Heaven is out of reach.

You die and go to heaven. Everything that you've wholeheartedly believed in, was completely wrong.

"We should just go home. It's my fault the girls bailed, man. I'm sorry. We'll never get in now." Enrique Delgado looked his friend in the eyes. "Peter, we can go home, have some beers, play some video games, like we've done countless times before. Or we can do something different, something risky, something fun." The words cut open a wound Peter was trying to forget. The whole point of this night was to forget his ex. But her voice was ringing in his head. *Do something different for a change. I wish you'd take a risk once and awhile. You're never any fun.* "I want to get into this club." Enrique smiled. A bouncer walking down the line passed them. "Excuse me," Enrique said. The bouncer turned around, emotionless. "My friend and I really want to get in tonight. I promise you, I'll pay you back someday somehow if you let us in. I promise." The bouncer was transported to his childhood. His father missing game after game after game. *I'll make it up to you someday somehow kid. I promise.* A graduation no-show, he ran away from home, leaving his father for good. A letter years later, the old man was dying. On his death bed, *"I'm sorry kid. I know I drove you to it and I sure as hell know I didn't deserve it but there isn't a day of my life I didn't wish you had given me a second chance to pay you back for being a shitty father."* The bouncer had tears in his eyes. "I don't normally do this okay, but I'm going to let you guys in." Peter fist-pumped the air. "Alright, you're the man!" ---- I really like this prompt. I could keep going with this but I didn't want to get carried away. EDIT: [Part 2](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1xezrp/wp_his_super_power_is_knowing_exactly_what_he/cfaueg0) and [Part 3](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1xezrp/wp_his_super_power_is_knowing_exactly_what_he/cfb9eph)

His super power is knowing exactly what he needs to say.

"A fine vessel she was, the Cutlass. Terror of the East Indies during its heyday. I remember those days of plunder and villainy with a fond eye. We used to pillage the living daylights out of the Dutch and French Galleons that sailed the seas between Indonesia and Pondicherry. Made quite a bit of coin out of it as well, though I usually ended up spending it on Chinese rice wine and loose women. A good life it was, yes. Then the storm came. It looked like any other storm we've been through, when viewed from a distance; a few gales, a couple splashed of rain, some wayward waves. It wasn't nothing we couldn't handle. How wrong we were. It was the storm of a century. Winds strong enough to blow a man's clothes offa him flew around us, knocking sailers overboard. Waves bigger than the buildings I once saw in London as a lad loomed above us, like black walls slowly coming down. The rain was so heavy we couldn't walk through it; we more or less swam. And then it came. The big one. A wave bigger than any I'd ever seen in me life. Musta been a league high, I reckon, and wider than 3 Cutlasses laid in order. And it came on us, and crushed us without mercy. I don't remember much after that wave. It was dark, and cold, and it was hard to breathe. I tried to swim back up, but I couldn't. The water pulled me in, grasping for me. I saw sailors slowly die, writhing until their last moments. All I could think, all I knew, all I felt, was regret. These years of life, of crude love and drunkenness, ended by our misfortune of sailing into the wrong storm. And as the regret consumed me, so did the water. That has been my life ever since." Philip watched the specter carefully. The man speaking was dressed as a standard Indian Sea pirate; loose breeches, loose shirt, and small black shoes with no socks. He wore a handkerchief over his head, red as blood and slightly damp-looking. The man's face and skin were mottled, similar to fingers after a particularly long shower. He looked like a deckhand, a simple sailor, but he had an air of wisdom around him. Perhaps the quartermaster, or the first mate? In any case, he looked nothing like a ghost, aside from the small flickers in his image, like the discrepancies of a VCR tape. "So," Philip said slowly, afraid he'd anger the spirit, "This ship's name is the Cutlass." "As I've just told you, yes." "And what purpose did you serve on this boat?" The ghost scowled and Philip flinched. "This ain't no fishing boat, lad. This is a full-fledged weapon of the seas. A battleship. A vessel that could take the finest Dutch ships easily." The ghost seemed to puff up with pride. "She's my love and my life." Philip felt that he should have said something about that last remark, but thought against it. "You seem to be rather fond of this... ship." "Well of course. A captain loves his boat as if it were his wife." Philip was startled. "You... were the captain?!" The man laughed. "Don't look it, do I? I was never a man for theatrics. No, I sailed however I pleased. And in the end, it brought me here. One false slip is all it took." Philip thought for a bit. "What happened after you drowned?" "I stayed down there. I saw my body decay. I walked through my broken ship for what seemed like forever. Saw the bones get eaten by sharks, saw coral reefs rise and fall, saw more and more vessels float over me. Sounds of war, of loud cannons, and some sort of damned explosive blowing up next to me. I cursed at those bombs. Every single one that fell were a threat to my ship. Broken as it is, it didn't need any more breaking. Occasionally a body would float down. Some were Chinese, or some sort of Oriental. Sometimes it was my own countrymen, of pale skin and bright eyes faded by death. I watched them fall, but none ever joined me. Nothing much happened after those days. Just the occasional islander fishing boat looking for food. Until you came, and raised me out of the sea." Philip couldn't believe his luck. Of all the things to happen when looking for wreckage, not only does he find some, he finds a reliable historical record. He could make millions. The research itself would be worth more than his current net worth. "Oi." Philip snapped out of his thoughts. The man stared at him pointedly, flickering somewhat. "Y-yes?" "I know your type. You're one of them science types, yeah?" "I'm an archaeologist. I study the remnants of history left on our planet to deduce the past." "Yeah, a science type." Philip rolled his eyes. "Yeah, close enough." "I've got a favor to ask of you." Philip was a bit startled by the man's statement. "I don't know how to help a dead man." "Oh, I think it's simple enough. You see, I'm not as fool as you think. A captain's gotta be sharper than the sword he wields. I've been counting the sunrises and sets, and figure out that I've been down in the sea for over 2 centuries. You are the first person to hear my voice in 200 years. Now hear what I hope to be my final request." Philip swallowed nervously. He didn't like the sound of that. "I want peace. I've heard of stories like mine, of doomed men stuck on the ships they died upon for eternity. The only way out is to have their last request completed." The man paused for a second. "Back in me country, there was a small city called Crawley. It was where I was born, and where I intended to die peacefully. If you search the captain's quarters of the ship, you'll find a small silver locket. My bones are long gone, but that locket ougta be enough to represent me." "What's in the locket?" Philip interrupted subconsciously. It was a bad habit of his. The man glared. "Let a man finish his thoughts," he said sternly, flickering extra. Philip shut his mouth extra tight. "It doesn't matter what's in the locket. In fact, I don't know if what's in the locket is still there. But it represents me. I want you to take it and bury it in front of St. John's Church. That's all I need you to do. That should free me." "...Where is Crawley?" "In England. A little more than a day away from London by horseback. I'm sure you'll find it." "And what if I don't bury it?" "Though I may be a ghost, there's still a lot I can do. Whatever you try to do here, I will ruin. Unless you get that locket buried, and me gone, you won't be able to get anything done here. Swear on me dead mother, I'll see to it." "Well, how will I know you're gone?" "You'll know." And with that, the man flickered out of sight. But Philip could feel a presence, watching him still. A difficult decision faced him. As Philip walked out of the remains of the ship they pulled out, the cameraman walked up to him. "Hey, we're ready to start filming. You all good to go?" Philip looked at the cameraman. "Not quite, Fred." Fred looked surprised. "What do you mean? You've been in there for a good 40 minutes. What's wrong with it?" "It's nothing special. I couldn't find anything of importance. Let's lower it back into the sea and try somewhere else." "What?! Dude, do you know how much money we spent on getting this thing out of the sea? Nat Geo is gonna kill us if we let it go down..." "Trust me. There's nothing there. Let's just go." "Come on, man, what's going on-" "Look, I said what I said, and I expect you to listen. There's nothing there. Now drop the damn thing into the sea, and tell the captain to go." They argued for a while, but eventually Fred relented, though still thoroughly annoyed. They carefully lowered the ship back into the sea, where it once laid for 200 years. Philip watched impassively as the last bit of damp wood sunk under the water. He could still feel the presence.

You are a pirate who's tormented spirit has been attached to your sunken ship for hundreds of years. One day the ship is salvaged by National Geographic.

I used to be a church going man. Not many churches left anymore. For the last year or so, I've been struggling to find God in the world around me. But I'll tell you, He hasn't made it easy for me. I know I'm not the last person left on Earth. Groups of survivors pass through this town every now and then. Another group, led by a sheriff, just set up camp on the far side of town. I'm not the last man alive, but I might be the last one who keeps a calendar. I could be the only Christian on Earth who knows that yesterday was Easter. I spent the day alone, praying. As I knelt there, conversing with the All-Mighty, I had a revelation. Why do we fear the walkers? Ever since I was a boy, I've celebrated Easter and the Resurrection of our Lord. Now, for almost a year, regular humans have had the chance to resurrect. People in my community who died years ago have walked again, just as Jesus Christ did. Could it be that this isn't a plague sent from God to punish us, but a chance for us to live in the image of his Son? Could it be that salvation has been staring us in the face for the last year, but fear has left us stagnant? Since the dawn of time, our existence has been temporary; a gentle candle that could be snuffed out by the slightest breeze. But not anymore. How could we all have ignored the signs? How could I have been so blind? How could I not have seen that He has finally given us the key to immortality? The walkers are the next step in our evolution. Through them, we become closer to God. I owe it to the Lord to speed his creations through this transformation. It is not a virus that has spread over our land, but the light of the Lord. These groups of survivors cower in the dark, afraid of the light, but I will show them the way. The sheriff and his group.... they are among the first that I will bring to salvation. (Cue Walking Dead theme)

You wake up in your favourite TV series. The protagonist needs your help. As you get to know him/her better, you start to root for the villain/antagonist.

Being dead and confined to earth ain't much fun if you're broke. But then, being broke is never much fun anyway. So could you blame me for starting a small business on the side? Just to drum up some capital, you see. Make myself comfortable until Lucifer let us know the apocalypse was coming. They say do what you know, and I knew a lot about being dead. In my opinion, that left me with two choices: a mortician, or a P.I. Let's put it this way; I'm not elbows deep in some poor sod's guts at the moment. So I got a nice office in the centre of London, which was good for one reason and bad for another. Good because crime rates in London are phenomenally good for business, and bad because I had to compete with Sherlock Holmes for cases. But I had one thing he didn't have. And no, it wasn't social skills. I could speak to the dead. Bit like Ned in Pushing Daisies, but with smaller eyebrows and I don't like pie or quirky girls. 'No murder left unsolved.' I used to boast, but 'no murder left unsold' would be closer to the mark. I was rolling in it. I swan into the morgue, sit next to the body, commune with the dead, etc etc, then go out and apprehend whichever sinner did it. (While slipping them my Boss' business card. Nothing wrong with a bit of recruitment for Hell, after all) I'd never met a dead person who's case I couldn't crack. Then June happened. June was a lovely young lady about twenty-three years old, who seemed to be absolutely wonderful in every way possible. Unfortunately, June had managed to get herself murdered. The press were having a field day. "MURDERED YOUNG WOMAN" The tabloids screamed, headlines unfortunately juxtaposed right next to the sleek and promising pictures of the ladies on page three. I was in the middle of eating a beef and pineapple sandwich when the news broke, because I'd read somewhere that all good detectives had a quirky habit, and I didn't particularly feel like learning to play the saxophone. I got the call and I answered it with my mouth full. "'Allo?" "Detective? Is that you? You sound funny." It was my informant and close 'friend' down at the station, Thomas Thomas. I swallowed the sandwich with a huge gulp. "It's me. What do you want?" "June Summers, sir. We want you on the case." I slung on my leather jacket, which I'd picked out only because Holmes looked better in a long coat than I did, and swept out of the front door in a way which should have really been caught on camera - so debonair and flawless was my exit. I arrived at the morgue after miraculously managing to dodge all of London's Congestion Charge areas, and even more miraculously, all of London's traffic as well. Thomas Thomas was waiting outside for me. He'd asked me to call him Tom on the first day I met him. I'd refused, of course. Thomas Thomas was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. "Where's the body guv?" I asked, grabbing the cappuccino he was drinking from his hand. "Through here. But you're not going to be happy, sir. Holmes has beat you to it." I threw the cappuccino in the bin, having remembered slightly too late that I didn't like coffee, or cardboard cups. "Holmes, eh?" "Yessir...." Thomas Thomas followed me nervously as I threw open the doors to the morgue in much the same way that Aragorn pushed open the doors at Helm's Deep. I was going to have to speak to someone about getting a movie version of my life (or afterlife, as it was) I cracked my knuckles as I approached the skeletal body with the brooding face and the cadaver. "I don't want you to be here." Sherlock Holmes said, cheekbones bristling in anger. "Ah, Sherley, you can't be serious!" I said, taking a look at June Summer's body. "I am serious. And don't call me Sherley." Utterly devoid of humour, as always. "Any thoughts yet, then?" "None that I'm going to share with you." "I'm sure I can manage well for myself." I concentrated rather hard and felt myself slip into the spirit world. "June, hey June?" The death was recent enough that her soul was still hanging round her earthy meat suit, waiting to be carried away by Death or one of his minions. "Hey there. Am I dead?" She asked, floating around like something that would float around. "Yep. No biggie. You got murdered. Can you tell me who did it?" Her pretty face scrunched up like she was trying to remember. "I don't know." She said eventually. "I couldn't see. They came at me from behind. I was in my flat..." But the rest of it I already knew, and I zoned out to find Holmes looking at me with a strange expression on his face. "It was done from behind. Strangulation, most likely." I pronounced. "How could you possibly know that? You haven't even examined the body!" Oh I loved making the big kid angry. I tapped the side of my nose. "I'll work you out!" He said angrily, but I laughed off the threat. "Sure you will." I cast over my shoulder. "Sign me out, will you Thomas Thomas?" I'd picked my own name when I'd become a P.I. Based it more than a little off 'Death' and french words, both of which seemed impeccably classy (which suited me perfectly.) Thomas Thomas obligingly did so and I left with Holmes still raging behind me. "I'll get you Moriarty! You see if I don't!"

A famous detective is actually a demon who solves murders by speaking with the dead.

I sighed, he wanted me to use my 'trash talk' ability again, despite me telling him I don't like using it. What choice do I have? "Steven! Your penis is so small that women ask if you have a clitoris!" Steven's self esteem dropped a few points. It was somewhat effective. Steven's pokèmaster ordered him to retaliate with "Draw 9mm Pistol" Oh shit, only one turn before he can critically wound me! My master demanded I "Equip Kevlar Vest" to try and resist some of the damage. I braced myself for the pain. Steven's master told him to "Fire 9mm pistol" and he did. He missed. Me, at least but managed to hit my pokè master right between the eyes. Steven then turned around and shot his master in cold blood, several times. He looked at me and started walking in my direction, when he was about two metres out he stopped. "Hey man, that thing about my penis really hurt my feelings." "I... Uhm, sorry? You know how it is?" "Yeah, yeah, I do." "What now? Are you going to kill me?" "No way, I just realised that we have guns and the Pokémon don't. Why do we take shit from them? "Huh. That's actually... A good point!" "C'mon let's go show the other guys too." THE END (And this is how the Pokémon universe we all know started.)

You are in a world where Pokemon live in cities and towns and catch humans with Peoplemon balls.

"If you like Pina Coladas..." Nah, it didn't happen that way. In fact, when I saw her at the Mexican restaurant, the one we always said we would try out but never did because we were "always so busy", a feeling of dread washed over me. I could see that that same feeling had overcome her too, because she had become as pale as a sheet. Yet, oddly enough, she didn't run away like I would have. That's what I've always loved about her, her bravery. Instead, she calmly walked up to my table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. We didn't speak for a few minutes. All there was was the clinking of dishes and the commotion of the happy diners laughing and conversing. "You're winddancer492," I said finally. "Yeah. How long have you known?" Now, I could have taken this opportunity to turn this all on her, to make her out to be the one who was in the wrong, the one who slighted me. But I didn't. "I didn't, not until a few minutes ago." "You mean--?" "Yeah." She looked away, and I looked at my lap. The waitress came and went with our drink orders. I continued looking at my lap. "You know, you're the first guy on that site that I thought had a lot of potential to go past being a fuck buddy." "Really?" "Yeah. You reminded me so much of the way you were before Annie di--" She couldn't finish her sentence. Instead, she grabbed the folded napkin on her table and started dabbing the sides of her gentle brown eyes. She shuddered. "You had so much passion and drive, and the way you spoke to me was just..." She paused, as if drinking in and relishing all of the words I had messaged to her, all of the excitement I had for a woman that was new and alive, one I had hoped could help me dig myself out of the dark void that was my relationship with my wife, even if for a while. Then, she frowned. "And then I told myself that I couldn't live with you anymore. Our baby girl looked so much like you, Andrew." I forced myself to hold back the tears. "But here I am...with you. I don't know what to think anymore." "Maybe we really are meant to be together," I said. "Maybe, but not right now. I think some time apart is ideal. You know, to clear things up for ourselves."

A husband and wife are both secretly in online relationships. They finally arrange to meet their respective paramours and realize they have been cheating on each other...with each other.

Stan checks his watch, the little clock in the bottom-right hand corner of his computer, the clock shaped like a cat across the hall which Suzie brought in to help "break up the monotony" of the office, which only really served to make the place more office-like. It's five o'clock, still half an hour until he was allowed to go home. In one window on his computer was the actual work that he was supposed to be doing, and in the one that was actually visible was Solitaire. His eyelids started to drift, open, closing, closing, closing, then snap back open again before he could fall asleep at his desk and get another lecture from Charlie about how the whole office needs to have "synergy" and that he simply wasn't "a team-star". Charlie was the kind of guy who unironically had motivational posters in his office, the kind with a black border, a picture of an iceberg that has three quarters of it's mass submerged, and the word "Potential" written in Times New Roman with a dot between each letter. Stan was about to take a sip of decaf from his Disneyland mug, when an angel exploded through the ceiling. The seraph, wings made of golden sun, eyes burning with the fire of God, pointed his sword that must have weighed as much as Charlie's Prius at Stan. "Yea, so it has been prophecized that one such as you would bring forth all of his strength to help bring balance to this corrupt world, nay, the entirety of the universe! Doth thou accept this most noble quest? Or be thou a coward of the most wretched kind? Speak, o wielder of the destruction-globe!" Stan started to shake uncontrollably, his Disneyland mug exploded with the ecstasy of the holy word coming from the hallowed lips of one of God's chosen. His clothes flew off his body and disintegrated, replaced with shining golden armour. He started to float above his office, Terry from accounting finally had the heart attack that everyone in the office knew was coming. Stan started laughing with joy, his life finally having meaning. Yes! All these years of monotony were all just a lead up to his ultimate destiny of being the one who will redeem mankind! Charlie came storming out of his office, moustache fluttering with anger. "Goddamnit, why is there a hole in our roof and a giant winged man right under the hole? Stan! Why are you floating? I don't think you can reach your keyboard from all the way up there, Stan! And another thing, it isn't casual Friday, you can't wear golden plate armour to work! It's just not professional. You get down right now or-" The angel pointed a single elegant finger at Charlie, and his body splattered all over the walls around him, some hitting the new espresso machine that everybody was excited about. "Now that thine oppressor has been sent to the deepest reaches of Hell, where he shall be eaten by wolves every day for eternity, thou art free to follow thine most worthy goal. Dost thou accept?" "Fuck yeah I do! Yeah! Let's go stab some God damn demons or something, I'm fucking ready! Woo! God *damn!*" The angel's head cocked to the right. "Didst thou just take the Lord's name in vain?" "Well, yeah, those demons are, by definition, 'God damned' so I figured, hey, we're all on the same team, we can get pumped up a little bit!" He scratched his head and made a magnificent scroll appear in his hands. He rolled it out, shook his head, and chuckled to himself. "Oh, um, quite sorry. You're not John Krieger, professional demon hunter, are you?" There was a long silence, the only thing heard was the ambient holy choir that emanated from the angel. "Umm, yes?" "Shit." The angel collapsed on himself into a beam of light, and ascended through the hole in the ceiling. The armour disappeared off of Stan, and he crashed through his desk, stark naked. He brushed himself off, covered his shame with his keyboard, and went to cry in the bathroom for a while.

You discover the message meant to be given to "The Chosen One" was wrongfully given to you.

It's hard to explain, really, but when you leave home and go to war, home isn't home anymore. It just isn't. The people change, they treat you differently; they nod and they give their respects, they thank you for your service or they ask you what it was like over *there*. Sometimes I wish I could be back with my squadron, with my friends. Where I understood how everything worked. Jim isn't coming back. Every day that I wake up I am reminded of this fact. It doesn't bother me too much, and that's what scares me. Mother couldn't handle it and dad is quiet these days, and everybody expects me to be torn up about it, but they don't know what he turned into. He enjoyed killing. He would talk about those that he killed and even in my squadron, there were those who too enjoyed it. They lived for the days where they could kill. They took comfort in it. But even there, even among the worst of it, it was familiar, it was something that you could control. You lived every day with a plan for the day in front of you. You operated and acted like a well-oiled machine, and you didn't let the people like Jim affect you. I have the nightmares occasionally, the moments when Jim would scare me. He would talk about things that no person should talk about, and if mother and dad knew about it, it would kill them, too. I remember the day he died, too, how Captain Jenkens had brought me into his tent and told me the news. Jim had been out on a scouting mission when they were ambushed. I cried that night, but it was the first and last time that I cried over Jim. But I can't talk about it here, I can't tell people how Jim had changed, how lucky we were that he hadn't come back, because home has a way of changing. It has a way of changing when you're gone so that when you come back, you feel as if you are a stranger in a foreign land with foreign strangers who don't really understand, and I don't know how Jim would react to it. They say war is hell. No... home is hell.

Two brothers go to war but only one comes back. What happened?

I'm not saying that Truly was a great sidekick, or even a good wife. Hell, she wasn't even even a decent cook! But when someone insults the name of Evil... Well I, Dastardly, am not just going to sit in my throne of virgin's femurs and take it! It started off as an ordinary Tuesday morning. Truly was making me breakfast, I was contemplating making myself breakfast so that I could avoid having to eat the one she was currently decimating. I'd never seen someone add *quite* that much chilli powder to scrambled eggs before. I greeted her with the usual kiss on her cheek and loving slap on the arse, then settled down with my favourite newspaper; The *Evil Times* to wait for disaster on a plate to arrive hot and ready, the way I wish my wife still was in bed. But disaster struck in a way that I had not been expecting at all that morning. Instead being served breakfast by my lovingly mediocre wife, I watched in astonishment as my windows were blown apart and two men in tight, white lycra swooped in on ropes. They swooped down, swooped up my darling Truly and swooped back out of the window before I'd had the chance to get out from under the table, or even offer a witty retort. It was three times as much swooping as I'd wanted to experience that morning, and twice as much tight, white lycra than was *ever* really necessary. The swooping had been their undoing, however. Despite not leaving so much as a ransom note, or a word of explanation, or even a crudely drawn phallus and a smiley face, I knew exactly who my wife's kidnappers were. They were the Goody Two Swoopers - a team of brothers who worked together to combat crime and Evil across the whole of Bonnopolis. And the men who had been my tormentors through four years of high school. My story had been one of predictable tragedy, as all good villains' are. Unloved by parents who deserted me, slow to learn and quick to anger, I had few friends and many enemies. Meeting Truly had almost turned my life around. How often do you meet a woman whose name fits so perfectly with 'Evil'? It was like we were made for each other. Reminiscing on my past had made me determined to get my girl back and save the day, even if the day saving would only really be a day saver in my eyes and nobody else's. I donned my black cloak, pulled on my leather gloves and strapped two semi automatics across my back. "Alright." I said to no-one in particular as I left the house. "Let's go to war."

An Evil prince/ess is kidnapped or caught by the Good Guys and its up to the Villain to save her.

"Hashtag hey there swag!" Joanna sang out to her husband when she walked through the door. She set down her groceries on the counter. Her husband came through the connecting hallway, and helped her unload the groceries out of their paper bags and on to the counters. "Honey, why the fuck," he paused, indicated the break in text, "didn't you get the salmon? We have an official checking on us tonight." "OMG." Joanna shouted, shocked. "Prepare yourself. The official is coming." Their toddler, little Jeffery, waddled through the door. He pumped his fist in front of his face, giving a look of triumph. "I had secks," he declared proudly. Joanna whirled around to look at him. "Not sure if serious," she said, pausing, "or just being childish." Jeffrey hopped up on the stools near the counter and leaned on it with an elbow. "I don't always tell my parents I had secks, but when I do, I'm lying." Joanna broke out into a grin. Her husband gave a sigh of relief. The spam ads that showed up at kindergartens nowadays started the kids early. Joanna then remembered that the government official was stopping by in an hour and she had nothing in the oven. Her husband watched her frantically attempt to prepare a meal, only to burn a chicken and a turkey. He went to the freezer in their basement. If their meal didn't appease the official, they could be executed. "What if I told you," he called out to Joanna, "that I just made the perfect meal?" He brought in a gorgeously made pizza in twenty minutes, setting it on the table. It had all the qualities of a homemade one. Jeffrey toddled into the room. "Yeah," he sighed, pulling up his pants and hefting his shoulders, "If I could get a slice of that, that'd be greaaat." Joanna stared at the pizza in amazement. "False. You couldn't have done that." Her husband smiled and shrugged. Hours flew by, and the government official smiled and loved their pizza. Jeffery regaled him with tales from the backyard. When the official took a bite of the pizza, he shouted "The quality of this pizza," he continued, "is too damn high!" Everyone laughed. You had to. "How did you do this?" The official asked, breaking the meme rule. He could, he was of a higher power. The husband put up his hands and told him "Aliens." The official had a hearty laugh, and soon after, he departed them with a check-plus inspection rating, the highest honor. When the door closed, Joanna turned to him and said- "One does nolt simply make that good of a pizza. Did you get it delivered?" The husband smiled into the distance. "It's not delivery," he whispered, "it's DiGiorno." (I feel dirty writing that. Ugh.)

A dystopian sci-fi short story where spoken language evolved to use hashtags, memes and similar.

I stared into her eyes. They were black and unforgiving, and their gaze pierced into my soul like a samurai's katana. How could I be crying so much, and she not be? The girl was heartless — *heartless!* "Get away from me," she whispered scathingly, her tongue licking across her teeth like a scalpel across the skin of my naked heart. I fell to my knees and felt the rocks cut into them, but it didn't even hurt. She might as well have slapped me, stabbed me, left me to die on the floor of the high school gymnasium, left in a pool of my own sweat and blood and tears. "Please," I said. Her rejection was pressing me down into the earth. I wanted it to swallow me up and eat me up, to simply absorb me and hold me there for millennia. There was no point to my life, I didn't matter, she knew I didn't matter. "I didn't mean to," I said. "Ugh," she said, and walked to the other side of the gym. I collapsed into myself, regretting that I had hit her — the love of my life, my soul and sun, the meaning of my existence — with a dodgeball. I deserved everything I had coming to me. ...aaaaaaaand I'm going to go take a shower now...

Write a terrible piece of emo fanfiction. Really make me cringe.

F.B went to grab the door handle, but found the door already open, slightly swinging from the strong wind coming from outside. His hand hovered above the handle for a moment in confusion, but firmly pushed the door all the way open. He stepped into the dimly lit apartment, and made his way to Space's bedroom. His door was closed, but he could hear loud repetitive music coming from the inside. "Hey, man. You in there? What's on your mind?" F.B called out a little bit louder, "Dude, why do you always have to have that music on every time I come in?" There was no response and F.B decided to push his way open. Sitting on the bed was Space, hands on his head, staring a hole into the ground. F.B walked over to the radio and switched it off. Immediately the silence was threateningly awkward. "Uh, hey man. What's been up with you?" F.B's words punctuated the air. "You know I've been okay, just went to the gym. Had a sandwich. Pretty...uh, fun day." Space didn't say anything. He didn't look up. All he did was pull a gun out from under his pillow. F.B jumped back. "Dude! What the fuck? Get that out of here!" Space looked up at his old "friend". His voice was quiet, but firm. "Stop calling me "Dude", and "Man". We've never been that close. I've realized I've never been close with anyone. I have all these fake friendships. All I do now is listen to bands and pretend to be something I'm not." F.B kept walking backward until he hit Space's desk, knocking over some papers in the process. "Space, du-, Space. It'll be okay. We can get through this. Let's go get you some help." "It's too late," Space mumbled, putting the gun to his head, "It's too late for me." F.B's hands started to shake. "Space, really. What about all that stuff you're doing now? You know I noticed you got a new look, I like it. I would like it twice if I could." The finger inching towards the trigger stopped. "You...like it? You do? I didn't think anyone noticed." "Yeah man," F.B's sweat started to soak through his clothes. "Yeah, I like it a lot. Everyone's been talking about it." Space looked up at F.B. "I worked really hard on it, ya know? I didn't think anyone noticed. I'm a changed man, F.B. I could really be something if people gave me a chance." The hand holding the gun slowly descended, eventually dropping the gun on the bed with a soft thud. F.B sighed in relief, "Yeah man, come on. Let's go get a beer or something. We can talk about this some more at the bar." "I would like that," Space smiled, "I would like that a lot."

Facebook attempts to talk down MySpace from suicide. The ending is up to you.

[WP] Two brothers go to war but three come back. What happened? *Dig, dig, dig.* That’s all William was told to do. The art of trench warfare relied on dozens of soldiers having the thankless task of burrowing into the unknown. Still, it was better than being above ground, only the dirt could kill you down here. William wondered what his little brother, Samuel was up to. William had sent him out to go get refreshments for them almost half an hour ago. “Poor Samuel.” thought William. It was William’s fault that Samuel was here in the first place. William had been drafted and Samuel had demanded to go as well; he hadn’t realised the reality of war, the bloody propaganda always worked too well. Still, they were both lucky, the Captain had been a close friend of William during their days together at university and as such, he gave them the easier the tasks. *Dig, dig, dig. Where was the little bastard? I’m being to feel…* William had hit a soft spot and felt the dirt give way. *Shit!* William scrambled to backtrack, but his trench was too narrow. After the dust had settled, William heard a cough from the other side. *Shit. Germans.* William tried desperately to rebuild the wall, so that the enemy couldn’t get through. He began spit on piles of dirt and clumping them together to form makeshift bricks. William approached the hole, flicked on his lighter and froze. Staring back at William was…himself? “Hello?” he called. “Hello?” a voice with a German accent replied. “German! Get back you Hun!” William tried kicking dirt at the soldier to force him back. “No! Stop! I will not hurt you!” “Liar!” “No. Stop! *cough* I’m. *cough* weapon less!” The German showed his hands. William stopped kicking. “Oh. Sorry about that old chap. Got a bit paranoid. Name’s William.” The German was still coughing, but managed to spit out, “Anton.” At that moment, William heard footsteps coming up behind him. He turned around and saw Samuel carrying water bottles. “Will! Sorry I took so long there was no water at the mess hall so they sent me to the kitchen and then… Who’s that Will?” “*Cough* Anton.*Cough, cough*” “He looks an awful lot like you Will.” “Yes. Here have some water, sorry about before.” Anton took the bottle and took a long steady drink. “Thank you.” He replied, as he wiped his mouth with a grey sleeve. Both men eyed each other carefully as the bottle was exchanged back. Only Samuel seemed oblivious to the possible danger. “When’s you birthday?” he blurted. “November 25th.” William drew a breath. “Year?” he asked slowly. “1894.” “No.” William whispered. “Hey what a coincidence, you guys have the same birthday! You could be twins!” danced Samuel. Samuel ran over to hug Anton. “I’ve always wanted another brother. Will doesn’t do a very good job.” he teased. “Samuel! Get back here!” William shouted gruffly. “He’s not even on our side.” “Aww, come on Will. He hasn’t killed us yet. Hey, do you have a picture of your mother?” “Yes. Here she is, with her husband.” Samuel looked at the photo. “She doesn’t look the same as our mother Will. Our mother has blonde hair Anton, your’s has dark hair. Plus our mother is much prettier.” “Samuel!” Anton laughed. “No, it’s okay. These are not my real parents. I’m adopted.” William inhaled. “This is my birth mother.” Anton pulled out a small brown, leather bound notebook and withdrew a pocket-sized photo. “I didn’t know her, but she is beautiful.” Anton handed the photo to Samuel. Samuel’s eyes widened. “Will.” he whispered. William snatched the photo from Samuel and stared. The photo was a portrait, of a lady with high cheekbones and porcelain skin. The sun was filtering through and dancing off her shiny, perfectly, coiffed hair. A smile played upon her lips, and her clear, intelligent eyes stared far beyond the camera. “It’s her.” William whispered. Samuel and William had both heard rumours of a possible sibling, but they were just that; rumours. They had never dared to ask their mother or father if they were true, Samuel had tried once, but their mother had fled into her room and shut the door for a very long time. William stared at Anton and Samuel. “Anton, how do you feel about meeting your birthmother?” -041

Two brothers go to war but three come back. What happened?

**Edited to include proper ending.** The day I found out the end was near, I had a panic attack. They said it would happen within two years, and that they were creating a program to transfer several people to Mars. The best and the brightest would be given priority, they said, along with their families. Then, there would be a lottery for regular civilians. Of course, that was a lie. I know this because my client, Dr. Arthur Sellars, told me. Arthur was brilliant. He was a botanist intent on finding plant life on Mars, or the possibility of growing any. He was also lonely and a bit narcissistic, and since he had no one of the lowest common denominator to brag to except for me, I drank in all the glory and pain and suffering and success from his lips. He thought he could make it seem as if he was the most brilliant of all the scientists on his team. Considering that half of his coworkers were also clients of mine, I knew better, but I also knew not to take him down a few pegs if I wanted to be paid as well as he paid me. When he told me about the Mars Program, he was elated, finally having the chance to be where he wanted to be: a planet that had not been fully explored quite yet. I listened intently until he confessed to me about the supposed lottery. It would definitely be rigged, adding more political, scientific, and entertainment figures than what was originally announced (along with their families), ensuring that civilization would be more brilliant, creative, and beautiful. There was no way in hell that I would be included in there. I was only slightly above average even with make-up on, and I had no other qualities except for being someone's fuck buddy for the evening. I had money, but no amount was enough to include me in what they were ensuring was a fantastic gene pool. I was determined as hell to get on one of those ships and start over. This was my chance. So I did what many of the other whores did: I tried to seduce my clients. One by one they declined, and eventually catching on to what I was doing. At some point they stopped contacting me. I was getting restless and scared. At that point, I hadn't spoken to Arthur at all, as he had been busy preparing for his flight. I had almost forgotten about him until about two months before the flight, when he called me for company. He wanted to celebrate with someone. I didn't decline. I knew my approach would be wrong, and I knew that what I'd be doing wasn't honorable, but then, what of my profession was? He took me out to a lovely dinner, we had plenty of drinks, and we went back to his hotel room. It was the usual routine, only it was more intense, and our time together was a little more passionate than usual. He asked me out again a month before the flight. After our sex session I did my best to convince him to get me an extra ticket. He told me he couldn't, that there was only a set number of tickets and that there just couldn't be two people per one ticket. I saw the look in his eyes, there was concern, sympathy. I realized he did care about me, and I felt horrible for what I was planning on doing. He decided to leave on the day of the last flight. He told me so, and, being a bit of a scatterbrain, he got there at the last minute, claiming the very last ticket available. I was there, I was waiting. "What the hell are you doing here?" He whispered angrily at me after he dragged me behind a wall. "Dr. Sellars, I'm so sorry, but I need to be on that flight." He frowned, the wrinkles in his eyebrows deep from several years of concentration. "Do you think that after all these years of studying and working I'm just going to throw away my life for some...for you? Go to hell, Sarah." He started to walk away. My heart punched my ribcage. I almost didn't spit it out. Almost. "I'm pregnant, Arthur." He stopped. I saw him breathe for a few moments before turning to me. His expression had softened. He calmly walked up to me, gulping. "I don't believe you." "I can prove it to you. I have a pregnancy test on me, and I can take it right now." I opened my bag and showed him the unopened box. I looked at him, giving him the best puppy eyes I could muster. He was blinking a lot and he began breathing heavily. He brought his hand up and made a shooing motion. I went into the bathroom and ripped open the test. My friend had managed a flight a few days before. She actually was pregnant but I told her my plan. She gladly gave me a sample of her urine. I used it on the test. Don't ask me where I hid it. I handed him the test. He brought his palm up to his mouth when he saw the plus sign. His breathing became even heavier. Suddenly angry, he threw the test at me. It hit me in the chest. "How could you fucking do this to me?! This is all your goddamn fault. You deserve what you get for not protecting yourself. Jesus! Fuck you, FUCK YOU!" He started to pace back and forth, combing his fingers through his graying hair. I gently grabbed his hand. He flinched and pulled away. I grabbed him by the arms, this time more forcefully. "Hey!" I looked him dead in the eye. He wouldn't get away so easily. "Don't put this all on me, it takes two to tango, buddy! Besides, weren't you the one who was terrified of not having an heir to your greatness, your intellect? Didn't you cry on my shoulder when you told me you feared not having a child, a son or daughter to have pride in?" "I can have whoever I want on Mars. Any woman there could give me a child." "Oh yeah? All those people flying there, all those people that are there now...they were here once, yet you never made a move to speak to them aside from greetings. The atmosphere isn't going to make you any braver or any less introverted. Arthur, I am giving you the chance of a lifetime. Even if you don't have the chance to live, you can at least know that your child will. You will live through them, I will make sure of that." He pushed me off him and started pacing again, breathing ragged. He pulled out the ticket finally and threw it at me. "Get out of my sight, bitch." My heart continued to pound. The adrenaline pulsed through me. I had to ball up my fists in order to stop the shaking. I couldn't believe it worked. I clung to the ticket tightly and walked to him, holding my breath, hoping he couldn't smell the lie still lingering on my lips. I held his face in my hands and brushed my lips against his one last time. He didn't fight it. It was the worst thing I had ever done. I sentenced a man to his death, and convinced him it was the right thing to do for a child that didn't exist within me. Yet I would gladly do it all over again if it meant ensuring my survival.

The world is at end, and there is one last ticket to Mars,a prostitute,with no family,argues with a scientist why she should get the ticket and not the scientist.

"That fat fuck jerks the yerkin off to the creepiest shit, man." Jason first heard the voice when he had just clicked away from his favorite special website, something involving feet, tentacles, and petite Asian chicks. It startled him, and also scared him on a deep level. To most everybody out there, he was Jason McMannis, mild mannered drug smuggler and gun runner, but on the inside he was a freak with strange desires when it came to the bedroom. If that secret got out, it would harm the careful image that he had spent years honing, and he couldn't allow that to happen. He grabbed the little Derringer that he kept in his back-left pants pocket (which were rumpled on the floor beside him, coincidentally) and listened hard for the voice. "What the fuck is he doing, now?" said a different voice. "I don't know, I'm kind of worried about him. Ever since Tina left him, he's been on a slow decline, I tell ya. Honestly, we should probably start thinking about bailing sometime soon. This phase will not end well," the original voice hissed. Whoever these people were, they had been quietly keeping tabs on him for quite some time now. Tina had cheated and left him some 8 months ago, and those months had been full of drug and alcohol binges that sometimes lasted for days. The strangest part to him wasn't that the voice seemed to be coming from 20' away in the kitchen, which he was slowly stalking towards. The strangest part was that these people, who were so clearly professionals, allowed themselves to be detected after so long a stakeout. He rounded the island counter top in the kitchen and drew the Derringer up low on the floor where he thought he had originally heard the voice. Sitting there were his two portly tabby cats, Francis Bacon and Ms. Precious Perfect. "Augh! He's pointing his little faggot gun at us! This is it! Oh, God!" said . . . *said one of the cats?* "Just what in the hell is going on here?" stammered Jason. "You . . . you can understand us?" asked Ms. Precious Perfect. Jason didn't move, but bizarrely kept his gun firmly trained on the cats anyway. "Man, this is some horseshit," seethed Ms. Precious Perfect, "The jig is up and the first human being in history to understand us is our fat, lazy, drug-addled, worthless owner. This probably means I'll need to pipe down when I 'clean' myself, huh? Fuck that." "Hey Jason, I took a dump on the floor that smelled better than you. You should really start taking care of yourself. Maybe start by taking a shower, eh?" hissed Francis Bacon. "Since we have this moment, I feel like I should tell that I spit in your mouth while you sleep. I purr while I do it, too." admitted Ms. Precious Perfect. "Yeah, I scratched Tina to get back at you for locking us in closet while you two went to dinner. Bitch deserved it," said Franicis Bacon, "And I also hold in all of my kitty farts until you're around, and I bet those gaseous releases are banned by the Geneva Conventions, too. I hate you so damned much." Jason, still in shock, staggered backwards. "Christ, don't you guys have anything nice to say? I've been feeding you and changing your shitbox everyday for years now." "Well your farts don't smell so terrible ever since you lost twenty pounds through meth-related weight loss.

You develop the ability to speak with Animals, however they don't listen / like it and instead taunt you.

Everyone says that this is the best time to live. We have heat, cities, peace, infrastructure, mass transportation, water, easy lives. You ride to work, write out copy after copy, go home to a meal and a warm bed. Honestly, I'm always sweating. People barely believe in the past anymore. Wizards and dragons and elves and leprechauns for Gandalf's sake. Even just saying "for Gandalf's sake," makes some people snicker like you're a true believer. That they know the real history of Middle Earth, one that doesn't involve deus ex machina eagles and magical rings. Entire university history and social science departments are dedicated to undermining the old tales. And then the linguistic departments argue back, discussing language and grammar use and syntax and loan words we might possibly have gotten from eagles. It's a mess. Excavating the Old Places doesn't help. Excavators actually found Bilbo's goblins! They surveyed and dug and had geologists come in. "Rocks!" They proclaimed! "Nothing but rocks." To which the counterargument was, "of course, they're rocks. That's what happens to goblins exposed to the sun. They turn to rocks." To which the biologists tossed in, "That's the daftest thing we've ever heard. Organisms don't turn to rocks." "But what about fossils?" And so it went on. Even with that academic fighting, people are still claiming Hobbit ancestry even though they're the same size as humans with just some slightly harrier feet. Truth be told, I've seen Hobbit men with less hairy feet than my own. They hold contests, you see. Something to do with cultural pride and Remembrance Days. I look at the feet during the pageants (not in a fetish way, just more curiosity), compare them to my own, and I don't see much difference. I'm not complaining nor am I romanticizing the past. But I'm bored and feel soft. I just don't fit. Physically at least. I'm 6ft 5, red as the sun, scare all of my coworkers, and always running into things, breaking them. I once broke a doily. Picked up a teacup, accidently shoved a finger through a tatted hole and ripped it bigger. Of course, I paid for it, took it home, and put it on my table. My personal pendant dedicated rampant destruction. I'm still not sure if I did it on purpose. As a scrivener, I copy papers and contracts all day. But I have these fingers, you see. They're massive. To the point where I had to have pens specially designed for me with tiny nibs on them. As I sit here, writing out the Coolador-Minuvue contract for marriage and divorce subclauses, all I want to do is break some heads. Not in a serial murderer kind of way, but I want to feel what my ancestors felt. That running for miles then getting into a fight or an argument or something. My legs ache from inaction, and it's hard for me to sit in so much heat. I've thought about joining the military, but they've moved on from men like me. I stand out, a head above everyone else, and that is not a good quality to have when people are shooting at you. Not that there's any shooting right now, but it's still a valid problem. So I sit here, wait for teatime to arrive, and dream. Reading the stories again, feeling that gut ache for travel and discomfort and pain.

Pick your favourite fantasy universe. Write about what it looks like centuries later, after entering the modern age.

'Ah!' exclaimed the short, be-speckled man before me 'The Cosgrove passage. I haven't seen such a complete version in years!' I had expected ridicule, disbelief, hopefully even fascination - what I had not prepared myself for was recognition. Hell, it apparently had a name already. I placed the glass of water I’d been offered upon entering the office down on the walnut desk to my side. 'Excuse me?' I asked 'This isn't by anyone called Cosgrove. I wrote this, three nights ago, and it's been driving me nuts ever since.' The old man, Professor Voynich according to the sign on his office door, removed his glasses and began cleaning them. 'Tell me' he asked 'Did you happen to have a particularly restful night's sleep before writing this?' 'Well no,' I replied 'as it happens I didn't sleep well. I was dreaming of-' 'Dreaming of a small room' he shot back, cutting me off mid sentence 'with a small wooden table at its centre. Outside, the alley was lined in cobblestone, and the street ran long and straight before disappearing in fog. You probably wrote on every inch of every object in that room before you were done, correct?' I had no reply to this. He was right, down to the very last detail. 'There was also a strange light to the place...' I recalled lamely. 'Orange, yes?' he queried. I nodded. 'That's the dream alright' he began 'a classic Cosgrove. Here, take a look at this if you like.’ he passed me an old and well worn book from the shelf behind him. Opening it, I found a long academic text full of phrases such as ‘mass delusion’ and ‘feminine hysteria’. Alongside the words were images, old faded plates. Where the images were clear, I could make out, written by hand, recently familiar letters - inscriptions I had been living with for three days now. ‘This..’ I stammered ‘This is not exactly what I expected. How is this possible?’ ‘No one quite knows.’ Voynich replied. ‘Some people just seem prone to dreaming up these words sometimes. It’s happened for as long as we have records, but was formally identified by William Cosgrove in 1876. At the time there was a lot of excitement, but nothing ever really came of it and it has since passed out of public interest. Since no one has ever come up with a good explanation, it’s been relegated to a fringe area of study. Some suggest it might be a sort of mass delusion, or some kind of shared genetic memory. Honestly though, no one really knows.’ I considered my position. For three days now I’d been convinced something exceptional had happened to me, something incredibly unusual and unique. Instead I find I’m just one more in a series of individuals to have such an experience. I felt… disappointed, to be honest. I tried to temper that emotion with interest in the text itself. ‘So there’s nothing that special about this?’ I asked ‘Nothing terribly strange or out of the ordinary?’ ‘Well, the text is of course somewhat strange in general. But your particular iteration of it? I’d have to study it further, of course, but I’d say no. It’s quite a complete version, as I said, but other than that quite unremarkable.’ ‘Oh’ I replied. ‘I see.’ Thinking for a moment I asked ‘Well at least people must know what it says then?’ ‘Oh no, not at all’ replied Voynich. ‘No one has ever translated it. The language is incredibly obscure, perhaps something along the lines of ancient Sumerian. But overall, an extremely opaque mystery I’m afraid, and one which I can personally guarantee promises much but delivers very little satisfaction.’ *** I left Voynich’s office feeling acute dejection, but as I wandered through the sunlit halls of the University my mood began to improve. Yes, I had thought my life had taken a turn for the fantastical, which had ultimately not been true, but overall I was no worse off than before that strange dream. Such mysteries, I thought, were best left to the professionals and dusty old academic types such as Voynich. I had a life to live, and as I passed beneath the arch of the Aula Maxima, I allowed all thoughts of the last few days to leave me, and turned my mind instead to the weekend ahead. In the distance, beyond the park, I heard birdsong. *** Voynich allowed himself a moment of calm before making the call. The phone rang no more than once before it was answered. ‘Yes’ came the voice on the other end of the line, its tone curt. ‘Another one this morning’ said Voynich. ‘I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but surely 98% complete. Richard, this is the single most complete text this century. You know what this means.’ It was not a question. The line hissed in silence. ‘Richard are you-’ ‘Yes I’m here’ snapped the hurried voice. ‘Did you… take care of the author?’ Voynich was quiet for a moment. ‘And if I didn’t?’ he asked. ‘Don’t screw around here, Voynich. You know very fucking well what if-you-didn’t. You know what these people can become, who they answer to. Did. You. Take. Care. Of. Him?’ He enunciated the words slowly and deliberately, as though Voynich were a child. ‘Of course I did.’ answered Voynich at last. ‘He drank the whole glass, he’ll be dead before he speaks to another soul.’ ‘Good’ came the voice. ‘I’m glad we're still on the same page.’ ‘Are we winning this thing?’ asked Voynich suddenly. ‘Tell me this is all worth it Richard.’ There was no response. The line went dead. Voynich sighed and put down the phone. He picked up his own glass of water, the one he had deliberately swapped time and again with the young man’s so that in all honesty he didn’t know which had held the poison in the end. He swallowed it, then downed what remained of the other glass as well for good measure. ‘What the hell’ said Voynich to no one in particular. ‘We’re all getting off at the same stop anyway.’ As darkness began to fill the edges of his vision, Voynich wondered what the young man would do with his weekend. Would he appreciate it, treasure it for what it was? Or was he already falling into unconsciousness in a gutter beyond the university grounds. Voynich realised he really did want to know what would happen to the dreamer, but it was far, far too late for that now.

You have just feverishly written down three hundred pages-worth of writing in a language you do not understand nor remember learning. Could they be from above, a new testament revealed? Are you a prophet? Are you insane? You need to find a translator. You need to know what you just wrote.

I didn't have the energy to be surprised. Unfortunately, my predicament was predictable and I had predicted my predicament long before it was predicated. I'm lying on my back in the dark, utterly naked and I know, with a grim sense of satisfaction at knowing my own luck so well, that a beautiful lady (or man) will not be lying beside me when I wake up. I can feel a name tag on my toe. I wonder what they've written on it, since even I don't know my own name. "Devilishly attractive male. Mid thirties. Dark hair, blue eyes. Cutting cheekbones..." Three of those things are true. It had started off innocently enough. I'd woken up, had a cup of coffee, read the newspaper. Then I'd had a second cup of coffee because the first hadn't done anything. Then a bunch of Estonian arms dealers had knocked on my door, knocked me out and now I'd woken up in a drawer, in a morgue, probably downtown. And I wasn't sure what the worst part of that was. Looking back, I realised that the only innocent part of my morning had been the coffee, and I'd shoplifted that. I shuffled round in the dark and moved the sheet off my head. I considered breaking out, or at least making a very loud noise, but decided that I was doing pretty well for the time being. Most people might think that getting in with Estonian arms dealers is not the wisest plan in the world, but with all the Belvedere I could drink and all the women (and men) I could fuck, I was having a great time. It wasn't until later that I realised that I'd promised them nuclear weapons *and* taken their money. There were two problems with this. The first was that I didn't actually *have* access to nuclear weapons (come on, who did?) and the second being that I'd already heavily invested the money in something that my broker had assured me was 'sure to rise.' So essentially, it was gone. I lay back in the dark and thought about how much it would cost to change my identity and move to the Caribbean. I mean, the Cayman Islands account was still secure. I'd have to get clothes, and a wallet. It all seemed like a big bother. I was quite comfortable, here in the dark. Five more minutes wouldn't hurt.

You wake up in a drawer at the morgue.

>Attn: > >To users of system: Sol 2.1.4 > >Subject: software patch w/ updates > >We would first like to take this time to say thank you all for taking part in our Beta release. We realise that there have been some glitches with the system and our developers have been working hard to fix them as they arise. You will recall the last patch came shortly after the respawn bug along with liquid identity, hyper buoyancy, and food quantity bugs were exploited by the hacker "Jblaze420" or as he was known in your system "Jesus". We apologize for the delay in adding additional content to your system as our developers have been working around the clock to fix similar bugs around The Universe's main server The Milky Way. > >The new patch will allow the creature pack "mythological" to run seamlessly along side creature pack "basic". This wildly popular creature pack includes 7 types of dragons, 3 types of unicorns, 9 new horse based creatures, 6 new feline creatures, and many more. This patch includes the new "mana" system that will serve to support the new creatures in the existing ecosystem. This will hopefully prevent further extinctions due to limited resources. > >We have noticed that some users are using or destroying current resources and other users unnecessarily and we would ask that you refrain from doing so as this could cause planet Terra to crash again causing another reboot to be necessary. This would lead to a mass loss of user data such as that seen during the games original "lizard mode". This version is more stable than lizard mode but we still depend on user cooperation to maintain proper functionality. > >As we finish out our Beta phase we expect to add additional content including special user abilities, interplanetary play, the long awaited "Paradise" mode, and with many other features. > >We appreciate your cooperation with this project and look forward to another 4 billion years of Terra user enjoyment. > >-Universal Arts co.

Dragons, unicorns, etc.

In the bazaar you may buy laughter, whiskey breath, a Lilac breeze, or sunshine, but the compliments are free. You can buy lies, and slander to your benefit, but you should remember it's a seller's market. They sell jokes at a high price, and one liners fetch a pretty penny. They sell sorrows and woes and tears by the bottle. Perched along the racks you may find the glimmer in your father's eye. You may also find the dullness of coal. They sell air in bags, bottles, breaths, and gasps. Music comes in sheets, faint hummings, songs, and fleeting instances of delicious nostalgia where the lyrics tickle the tip of your tongue without rest. For a paltry fee you may find sensation in all varieties, to include abnegation and general apathy. Oddly enough the market for apathy is on the up-slope. Interest rates in loans for apathy are at an all time high. The sense of the uncanny costs $13.50 on a good day. Insults may be purchased for about $43.19. Backhanded compliments may be bought or traded for, but trades are preferred. I've seen a goldfish's first burp sold at the bazaar. I once saw an eye of newt/ sound of boiling water/ malicious cackle combo pack. Once, I saw an exclamation point sold at a discount. You can buy freedom there, but it's not free. Anyone can buy faith there, but they don't make it like they used to. You can buy love there, but that doesn't spend so well or accrue in value over time unless you tend it well. In the back corner of an alley off the bazaar is a green glass door where they sell balloons, glasses, and cigarettes, but they do not come with air, frames, or fire. Behind the green glass door they sell plenty of umbrellas, but not a single parasol. You can't buy everything behind the green glass door, but you can buy it all. In another alley you can find unmentionable things that defy language and the imagination, though the pricing for such items is fluid and unreliable. The last time I paid a visit, I bought five minutes there, but it cost me ten. I can't tell you where my favorite alley is, but you will know it when you see it. There they sell the secret things. Whispers come a penny a dozen. Thoughts are twelve times as expensive, of course. They sell it all. If you can imagine it, you can purchase it there. It may take some looking, and it might take a bit of luck but I promise you your brightest nightmare and darkest dream may be found in the Len'gua Bazaar.

Everything's for sale!

"Damn ticket," said Stanley Peterson, yanking it off his windshield. He sat down in his car, his boss' screaming on repeat in his head. He needed to think of something happy. He shut his eyes. Childhood. He's running in a field with a stick in his hand, his German shepherd just behind him. He trips and the game of tug of war begins. That was enough. Stanley opened his eyes. He smiled. He missed that dog. "Hey kids," Stanley said walking past the den where they sat staring at computer screens. He put his briefcase down and entered the living room, where his wife stood frozen in front of the TV. "Hey hon. Today was brutal. Honey are you okay?" She held out her hand. In it was a ticket. "We won," she said. "The lottery." Stanley sat down in the armchair. "Are you...serious? We're rich?" "No. It's the Forever Life lottery." "You mean we're going to be immortal?" "One of us will be. It can only be one." Stanley leaned back in the chair and tilted his head to the ceiling. He was too focused to notice the scratching against glass. "Well it can't be me. I'm not worth it." "Oh don't say that Stan. But obviously it should be one of the kids right?" "And how do we choose? How do we tell one child they're going to live forever, that they'll outlive everyone they love? And what do we tell the other? You weren't good enough so you're going to die like the rest of us?" Stanley pinched the skin between his eyes, the beginning of a headache. "Stan, I think maybe we should give it to someone else, like an artist maybe, someone who really contributes to society." "Oh, thanks hon. I'm kidding, I know what you mean. But who? Who would give the most to the world? A scientist right? Or some young entrepreneur? Someone with a truly brilliant mind." "On second thought, does it really matter? I mean, think about it Stan, don't *brilliant* minds usually do most of their great thinking while they're relatively young? They challenge old conventions and change the world to fashion their views. But once their old and their ways are the norm, they stop being relevant as a force of change." "I just think we-" "Hold on." Stanley's wife walked into the kitchen and opened the door to the porch, where their golden labrador had been scratching to be let back in. As soon as the door opened, the lab ran into the living room and jumped onto Stanley's lap and lick attacked his face. Stanley tried to shield himself. "Woah, hey I knew something was missing when I got home." He smiled. "Alright, it's your turn." He got off the armchair and rolled the lab over and began scratching her belly. He looked at his dog. She was the happiest thing he knew in life. He said, "You will bring us joy for the rest of our lives. You will bring joy for the rest of eternity."

A lottery exists claiming to give immortality to one winner. A man or woman loses or gives away the winning ticket.